Professor Layton and the Absent Apprentice
by hawkeye-pierce08
Summary: A horrible train accident leaves our Professor bewildered and without his apprentice.  With both a price and a time on Luke's head, Layton must barrel through puzzle after puzzle to save him.
1. Prologue

Prologue

He was tired. Sore all the way to his bone marrow, sweat weeping down his face, his nostrils violated by some vile odour. But above all he felt tired; uncharacteristically and insatiably tired.

The area that entrapped him sweltered, causing his skin to burn. Holes spotted his jacket, exposing the orange shirt underneath. Though a large dent bent his favorite top hat inward, it remained intact, requiring little to fix it (a small tear here or there did not warrant tossing the article). He punched the inside of the top hat to relieve the dent and resolutely slapped it on the top of his head; very few people ever saw him without the hat, it was simply not the gentleman's way, and he intended for his head to remain "anonymous," as it were. On his feet, he stumbled to the main entrance as best he could.

But his brain had some sort of fog enveloping all of his decision making powers. Nothing made sense; the main door was upside down, and he stood looking up at his seat, much of it charred away and smoldering. He knew it was his seat, _4F_, but something was simply incorrect about it. It should not be above his head. It was _improper_, of all things. Instead of trying to correct the problem, however, he felt as if he needed to move on to the next area. Clutching the handle on the door, he twisted it as best he could and plowed through the door with every possible ounce of force he could muster. The door inched open as if some other being on the other side fought against him to keep it closed. Something in his brain would not allow anything to make sense.

On the other side, a blazing fire clawed at his face with blazing nails. Covering his mouth with the remains of his sleeve, he weighed his available options in hopes of reclaiming a few of his deductive faculties. His only available options were to somehow crash through the fire to the other side, or so smash out the window next to him. In each option though, he had no clue as to what lie on the other side. For all he knew, only more fire would greet him beyond the one in front of him, and a large cliff dropped out beneath him past the window. Neither options seemed palatable.

Peering as best he could into the window, he could barely see the faint outline of a slope of grass. With little prompting, he battered his shoulder against the large window of the train (_Yes, _he thought, _we were on a train)_, hoping to at least crack the glass somewhat. The pain that raced along his rams and throughout his back, however, notified him that the window would not budge using his own force. He would need something else to crash through it and gain his freedom. Some sort of iron poking stick lay next to him, used as decoration for a fake fireplace at the front of the car, and he grabbed it with a bit of desperation. However, he immediately dropped the rod as it nearly burned the skin from his palms.

Though he had little time left before all the remaining oxygen in the car was savagely devoured by the flames, he tore the sleeve from his coat and wrapped it around the iron rod. Holding his breath and steadying his grip, he charged at the window like a battering ram, splintering the window into six separate panes. With his other shoulder, he slammed into the window another two or three times to finally burst through the other side. He stood ten feet or so above the grassy knoll, and the danger of possibly breaking another bone (at the moment he was unsure if he had any broken bones or not) struck him momentarily. But he braced himself mentally and let gravity pull him down towards the ground. Rain from hours before caused the ground to become slick and muddy, sending him tumbling farther and farther down the knoll. His shirt clung to him due to a mixture of sweat and rain water, and he needed a moment to catch his breath once again.

On the ground and from a different perspective, he could see the devastation that he just escaped from. The train nearly fell from the tracks, and from what he could see the train slid on its side for some time before attempting to flip entirely upside down. Luckily, a tunnel kept the train from falling completely off the track, but allowed it to turn roughly 45-degrees on its side. Flames jutted from various windows and lit up the sky behind it in a cacophony of oranges and reds as if a demon tried its hand at painting. Something felt horrendously wrong as he stood there, looking at the train as it disintegrated before his eyes.

"My God," Professor Hershel Layton said aloud. "Where is Luke?"


	2. Puzzle 001

Puzzle 001

Layton blinked at the bright hospital light above his head, hoping to rid his eyes of the merciless glare. His head throbbed against the inside of his skull in a dull and monotonous pound, similar to that of a blacksmith shaping a new sword. He felt a sense of urgency within his chest, but despite the glaring light above his head he was too sore to really move. His top hat lay on the bedside table, and he snatched it up again as soon as he heard footsteps outside his room. A nurse entered with a tray of assorted objects, including the necessities for making tea.

He tipped his infamous top hat in her direction, more out of habit than anything else. "Good afternoon, madam," he whispered, bits of charcoal grating the back of his throat. The nurse looked at him with confusion in her eyes.

"'Good afternoon' indeed," she chastised. "It's near eight in the morning. Your breakfast will be along shortly after the doctor sees you."

Layton nearly forgot to thank her in his reverie. Eight in the morning? How long was he asleep, if he was at all? He looked at a calendar on the wall, trying to decipher its meaning but a simple time of day lent nothing to the actual _date_. At one awful moment in his life, he managed to sleep through the entirety of a month in a coma. Waking up from that, his disorientation lasted for more than a week, and he had trouble connecting nearly anything. His entire being felt completely out of sorts, and the passing of a month felt like only a blink of an eye. To lose that much time again? Such a thing would devastate Layton.

Another woman opened the door of his room ten minutes after the nurse left. Layton sat up as best he could (a gentleman always rises when a lady enters or exits the room) but the attempt made him dizzy. The woman waved him down anyway.

"Professor, please," she chuckled. "You're not in any condition to be chivalrous at the moment."

Layton smiled inwardly. Years of gentlemanly training forbade him from behaving as anything less than a "chivalrous" man. They were the same values he tried to instill in his apprentice, Luke, on a daily basis. Suddenly, Layton tried to launch himself from the bed.

"Luke! Luke, I must find him!" Layton cried, folding back his bedclothes and attempting to jump from the bed. He only managed a few feet before the doctor held up her hands and guided him back into bed as he doubled over in pain. An intense, breath-taking dagger of pain screamed throughout his abdomen, causing his breath to come in quick, shallow gasps. Layton curled his fingers around the brim of his hat to keep from crying out. Tears coated his eyes but he refused to allow them to fall.

To distract himself from the pain, he turned towards the doctor. "I apologize, madam," he winced between clenched teeth. "I failed to ask your name. Please forgive my rudeness." The doctor cut him off.

"None of that, Professor. And my name is Doctor Lerwick."

He grimaced at her as best he could. For a moment, he surveyed his surroundings before addressing her again. His badly charred and tattered coat was thrown haphazardly across a chair, covering much of it. Surveying himself, Layton wore the same clothes in which he crawled from the train. The orange shirt he typically donned felt stiff and brittle on his body due to the dried sweat and rain water, and though his pants were torn at the knee, they were not torn enough to embarrass him or look indecent. Suffice it to say, he did not wear the typical garb of a hospital patient.

Doctor Lerwick brought his attention back to the task at hand. "Professor, if it all possible I would like to view your abdomen, sir."

Layton immediately blushed at the thought. "I…err…madam, do you believe that to be appropriate?"

"Professor, I'm a doctor. Now, you would not allow our nursing staff to properly clothe you so I must tend to your wounds in your current clothing. Please, sir, I need only to view your ribcage."

Reluctantly, Layton inched the shirt up his stomach, exposing only his ribcage up to his oblique muscle. Nothing above that area hurt anyway, thus he did not see the need to expose anymore than that. He instantly recoiled when the doctor placed her cool fingers against his alarmingly feverish skin.

"On the count of three, Professor, I would like you to make a fist," Doctor Lerwick instructed. "One…two…"

Suddenly white-hot pain rocketed throughout his stomach, through the nerves in his back, and up along his spine. The pain radiated throughout his body as if it were splashed on him like water. Layton wanted to fall into an unconscious state, if only it would relieve the pain as well.

Doctor Lerwick removed her hands and picked up the clipboard with Layton's medical information. "Surprisingly, no ribs are broken."

The information puzzled him. "I apologize, madam, but as much as that hurt how is nothing broken?" Lerwick did not even glance up from the board as she replied.

"Most likely the bones themselves are bruised. There is also the possibility of torn ligaments, bruised muscles, what have you." Her voice sounded hollow, and if there were no challenge in Layton's predicament. "Either way, treatment is the same. Rest as much as possible, nothing strenuous."

Layton considered the news for a moment, his small palm on his chin. In his gentlemanly training, he did not tolerate laziness of any sort. To remain still for no other purpose than the sake of being still confused him above all else; surely there were other ways of healing beyond stillness. "Might there be another way, doctor?"

"I do not quite understand, sir."

"My apprentice, a young man named Luke," he began. "As of this moment he is my priority, well above my own convalescence. When I escaped from the train, he was not with me and I fear the worst has happened."

"Well I can assure you, Professor, that you are our youngest patient. You did, however, often speak of finding _someone_, though you did not say who."

This troubled Layton. "If I may be so bold, how long was I…improper?"

"Hmm?" Doctor Lerwick looked up from the clipboard after scribbling a litany of indecipherable words. "Oh, only a day. The police inspector brought you here with a concussion that caused various amounts of lucidity, but even so you were semi-conscious much of the time. Do not look so worried, Professor; you did nothing to embarrass yourself."

Even so, Layton felt as though he lost more than just a day. With such little information regarding Luke's situation, losing a single day may also mean that he also lost an opportunity to search for the boy. Over the course of the year he lost too much; as much as Layton wanted to forget about his demons, they never fully forgot about him. To lose yet another

Lerwick eventually noticed Layton's unchanged and despondent expression. "There is a medicine tablet you may try if you are that desperate. However, it does nothing to actually _cure _the pain, only relieve it temporarily. You must not do anything strenuous for some time, roughly four weeks. Now as a _professor_ of archaeology, I doubt you would have many opportunities to do anything on the contrary."

Layton smiled at her teasing out of politeness, though it did little to lighten his mood. He needed to leave as quickly as possible and begin his quest to find Luke. Occasionally, a negative thought on Luke's mortal state writhed throughout his thinking, force-feeding him moments of anxiety and depression. The thoughts funneled into his stomach and sickened him.

Lerwick forced a cup of lukewarm tea into his hands as he swallowed the medicine tablet. Allowing himself to rest before the medicine worked its magic, Layton attempted to reclaim his jumbled and elusive memories of the past day.

"Madam, may I ask if you know what happened to the train?"

The doctor looked over the clipboard once again as she finished off her own cup. "Let's see here," she mused. "The police inspector noted that you mentioned some sort of timed explosion near the front of the train, though you did not know what caused it. Once the train derailed you fought your way out somehow. Looking at the other reports and statements, there was no mention of a young man at all."

Sighing, Layton looked towards the window. The early morning deep blue sky peeked through the grey clouds as if it were not fully awake yet. In Luke's letters, the young man often mentioned that this was his favorite time of day, when the world he lived in was yet to haul itself out of bed to begin the day. In one of his few ungentlemanly habits, Layton often arose late when he did not have a class to teach in the morning. Late nights of puzzle solving and archaeological research demanded late and strenuous hours.

The two were returning to London for Luke's birthday. The boy's father, Clark, requested him home for his birthday weekend with the accompaniment of Layton as well. Brenda, Luke's mother, depended on Layton to see to Luke's education and upbringing. Though he hated to admit it, Clark could see that Luke viewed Layton as a father figure. As the mayor of his hometown, Clark could only spend so much time with his family. His collegiate history with Layton allowed Clark to trust his friend with nearly anything, including his own son.

After some time, Layton sat up again. However, this time only pressure pushed against his stomach instead of pain. He smiled visibly at Doctor Lerwick. "Madam, I do appreciate your kindness. If possible, might I begin my search for Luke?"

The doctor momentarily considered the offer. Suddenly her eyes brightened and a devilish grin inched across her face. "I was told that you are a man of puzzles, Professor Layton." He nodded in affirmation. "If you can solve this one, and prove to me that you are in full control of your faculties once again, I will know that your concussion has receded and you are free to leave. Are you ready?"

Layton took a deep breath and prepared to receive the necessary details. Doctor Lerwick spoke slowly and with forced enunciation. "A man fell ill and was taken to hospital. His family came to visit him one afternoon. In his room, there was one grandfather, a grandmother, two fathers, two mothers, four children, three grandchildren, two sisters, two brothers, two sons, two daughters, a mother-in-law, a father-in-law, and a daughter-in-law. How many were actually in his room?"

Lerwick clamped her mouth shut and offered Layton a scrap of paper. He brushed it aside and turned his mind inward, his favorite place in which to think. The answer appeared obvious, that the puzzle was merely a matter of addition and therefore twenty-three people were in the room, but he knew that was too easy. Really it was a matter of perspective!

Layton tilted his head to do a quick calculation. Then he scratched his chin, which desperately needed a barber's touch. Finally he had it! "Here's my answer," he cried out.

Taking up the pencil and scrap of paper, he scratched out a number of circles and labeled them with various letters. An additional symbol here or there and he had enough visualization to explain his answer. "It really depends on whose perspective you are looking through. From the grandfather's perspective, he has a son, who also has a son. That explains the two sons. The grandfather's daughter-in-law is also present, who is the wife of his son. The grandfather's wife is also in the room, thus giving you two wives present." Layton looked up at Doctor Lerwick to gauge her understanding.

"As for the issue of the brothers, this requires another change in perspective. There is a younger son, who has two sisters. Rewording this, each sister then has one brother, giving the illusion that there is more than one."

Lerwick's smile widened deeply. She knew Layton had the answer. "So, how many were there?"

"Seven!"


	3. Puzzle 002

Puzzle 002

Layton stepped outside the clothier's shop feeling fresh and fine in his new jacket and trousers. Outwardly his new clothing looked exactly the same as the old, but the manager of the shop lined the inside of the coat with more pockets than Layton could find. The only outward pocket held his favorite time piece.

The pain in his abdomen gradually subsided to a dull, manageable throb. In his work as an archaeologist, Layton occasionally tumbled down a dig site or tripped over misplaced tools. However, none of those falls ever left him with as many cuts and bruises as the ones he sustained two days ago. In essence, his work left him unprepared for the more dangerous aspect of his life.

After Doctor Lerwick released him from hospital, Layton immediately set out to find the inspector that assisted him that dreadful night. As he walked along the busy streets of London, though, the looks and whisperings of the city's inhabitants eventually reached his ears. Initially wearing a burnt and charred coat riddled with holes and missing a sleeve, as well as his torn trousers and dirtied hat, Layton looked like more of a vagabond. For the first time in his academic career, other citizens actually feared him. Thus prompted the decision to acquire new clothing: if everyone feared him for a madman, no one would give him information willingly.

The road that lead to Scotland Yard wound throughout the heart of London, allowing him to view the city and recognize any followers he may have. Layton kept his hat low; those who knew him also knew that if one could not see Layton's eyes, he did not want any intrusion. His infamous top hat appeared in multiple newspapers and because of this when Layton and Luke traveled people wondered if they were investigating something. Luckily, few people interrupted his thoughts as he strolled, and those who did quickly understood that something troubled him.

One thing he dreaded beyond nearly anything else was the phone call he would later make to Clark concerning his son's disappearance. Clark trusted Layton with his son's life and losing the boy was an ungentlemanly breech of that trust. Even worse, once Brenda heard the news Layton did not know if she would ever view him the same way again. The thought saddened him; a gentleman always keeps his promises, especially to a lady. The loss of their son, both literally and possibly physically, would only deter Layton's gentle nature.

Somewhere, though, deep within his mind there was but a candlewick of hope that refused to die out. Layton could almost _feel _Luke's existence, as if it were a testament to their friendship. Once, long before Luke left for school, the young man fell ill that left him bedridden for nearly a week. Days beforehand Layton constantly asked if the boy felt alright, to the point that Luke shouted back in annoyance. Sure enough, a day or two later Luke spiked a fever that driveled into a variety of ugly symptoms. Luckily, Layton cancelled his archaeology class the same day he began his incessant worrying, as well as without Luke's knowledge, to tend to the boy.

Without any true children of his own, Layton viewed Luke as an adopted son, similar to his situation with Flora. Both of his wards had loving parents, both living and deceased, but to Layton the children were his dependents. Luke became his apprentice when the young man was but only eight years old; the Professor watched him change from a short and squat rascal of a little boy to the ever-growing awkward teenager who outgrew his loafers every other month. Above all, Luke was becoming a brilliant scholar of both humanity and academia, and Layton felt proud that he was responsible for instilling such values.

His "children" were also a source of contention in his life. Like most siblings, Luke and Flora occasionally squabbled or had their rows. Once, and only once, did Layton ever raise his voice at either of them, and days later he still felt terrible. Gentleman never raised their voices it the occasion did not warrant doing so, and where his "children" were concerned such occasion should never exist. And they would never know the fact but older children demanded more funds than either of them realized; Flora's estate covered most of her costs of living but Layton delegated much of it to her education, the rest came from his own pocket. Luke often questioned why the Professor never bothered with a larger study or why Layton always needed so many students. Truthfully, he sacrificed more for Luke and Flora than they would ever know.

If anything, his sad musings unknowingly lead him to Scotland Yard. Barton, Inspector Chelmey's rather large assistant, sat on his favorite stool.

"Good evening, Professor!"

Layton's head shot up as if brought out of a trance. "Barton," he replied with a warm smile. "How good it is to see you. My good sir, you look absolutely puzzled."

"I dare say I am, Professor. The Inspector wants me to find the center of an illegal tea smuggling ring, and I believe I found just the spot, but I do not know how to get in." Barton looked to the front door of the Yard to be sure the Inspector or anyone close to him could not overhear. Layton held fast to the lapels on his new coat and prepared to listen to the problem, then gestured for Barton to continue.

"I went to the location this afternoon around two. I hid myself in a barrel so that I could listen to the password, and then try it myself. One man in a red cap came up to the door and knocked, and then another man on the other side of the door said 'twelve.' Twelve, of all codes to give! Then the man in the red cap replied 'six.' I can assure you, sir, this confused me most deeply.

"Instead of immediately trying the password, I waited for another. Sure enough, a man in a blue cap came to the door, knocked, and the man on the other side said 'six.' Almost immediately, the man in the blue cap replied 'three.' Not long after, a third man in a yellow cap came to the door, knocked, and was given the number 'ten.' When he answered 'five' the vile man on the other side had him carried off! It does not make any sense, Professor! Why would they change their passcode so often? And how do I know which one to use?"

Barton sighed and dropped his shoulders, further widening his girth. Layton could see the despondency etched into the older man's tired and worn face. After thinking for only a few moments, Layton cocked his head, then rubbed his freshly shaven chin. Finally he had it!

"They do not constantly change their password, my good man," Layton smirked. "And allow me to congratulate you on a brilliant discovery; your work could very easily prevent one of the largest tea syndicates in London history from growing. They merely toy with the number of letters in the password."

The Inspector's assistant looked at Layton with a bit of confusion, wriggling the mustache beneath his nose. "I'm sorry, sir, I do not quite understand."

Layton retrieved a small notebook from one of his many inside pockets. "Look here. In the word 'twelve' there are six letters, that is why the man in the red cap answered so. As for the man in the blue cap, the word 'six' only has three letters. It appears as though they are simply dividing the numbers in half but that is simply not the case!" Barton pondered the idea for a moment. Suddenly his face lit up.

"So whatever they say, I count the letters in the _word _of that number, then that's my answer." Barton heaved himself off the stool and stood with his finger pointed towards the sky in victory. Layton crossed his arms and smiled at his friend.

"Congratulations, Barton. And please, if the Inspector asks you solved the case all on your own."

Barton nearly danced in place. "Believe me, sir; I cannot wait to tell the Inspector—dear me! I almost forgot, Professor; the Inspector wishes to speak to you." The portly man scrambled to open the door and allow the Professor through.

Inside, policemen of all different titles and areas of expertise bustled throughout. As much as Layton tried to remember their names to place with their faces, with such a large taskforce it became difficult to recall them all. Nearly every last one recognized the Professor, however. A few pointed in the direction of Chelmey's office, even though Layton already knew the way. He thanked them regardless.

Chelmey sat at his desk reading the morning newspaper, a plate stacked with pastry at his side. Layton inched open the door as quietly as possible to not disturb the Inspector, though he could only laugh when the mustached man accidentally knocked the plate to the floor. Immediately Layton rushed to help the Inspector retrieve them.

"Layton! I did not hear you come in."

"I apologize, Inspector, I should've announced myself. You requested to see me, sir?" Layton dropped a pastry onto the plate, a strudel of some kind. The Inspector never told anyone save for maybe his own wife what his favorite sweet was, but based on the spread the Inspector had Layton could make an educated guess.

Chelmey straightened out his uniform over his extremely broad chest. "Indeed, Professor. I wanted to speak to you regarding the train incident that I'm sure you remember."

"I'm sorry, sir," rejected Layton. "I am afraid that I do not recall much of it."

In almost every other context the surprise on Chelmey's face would possibly have made Layton laugh. However, in this instance in which Luke's life could possibly depend on every available moment, Layton could not muster a smile. The Inspector suddenly became furious. "How in blue blazes do you not remember such a thing! The train accident is the only news in the papers for the past two days!"

Layton allowed the Inspector to continue his diatribe uninterrupted, until the Inspector stopped himself midsentence. "The boy. What was his name—Duke? Where is he?"

"Luke, sir, Luke. And truthfully I hoped you could assist me in finding him. He was with me on the train but not after the accident." Layton tilted his hat downwards in apparent shame, his face burning red from embarrassment. No matter how much he tried to reason with himself, Layton simply could not fathom how he managed to lose Luke. "You did not see him with me, by any chance?"

The Inspector looked up at Layton with a curious look. "You mean you do not know the person he went with?"

Layton's attention cracked into full focus as if shot from a pistol. "He went with someone else?"

"That's right, Professor. He left with his own father."

Layton scrambled down the busy streets of London in a marathon of twists and turns that lead to his office. Though he seldom used the device and preferred correspondence, he had to admit that the telephone provided critical information much faster than the post.

His students crowded around his door, eagerly peering onto the postboard to view their exam grades. Most of them towered above Layton, though his top hat gave him the appearance of height. Due to his large class size, the amount of bodies crowded into such a small space hardly allowed breathing room.

Layton tried his best to remain polite while shoving himself through the crowd. A number of students stopped him to discuss their grade, at least he assumed they did; he stopped long enough to inform the student that he had pressing matters to attend to. He fumbled with the key as he unlocked the door, his students accidentally shoving against him.

In the peace of his office, he took a deep breath. Clark was only a phone call away, and if what Chelmey said were true, he would know of Luke's whereabouts. On the other hand, Layton feared Clark's reaction to losing him in the first place. As he picked up the telephone receiver, his hand shook. When the operator came on, he asked to ring Clark's residence.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Impatience was not the mark of a true gentleman but a gentleman also know when to sacrifice such habits, particularly when a person's life was at stake. Eventually, and after a much longer time than Layton preferred, Clark's refined voice answered.

"Triton."

"Clark," Layton announced with urgency. "It's Hershel."

His old friend sounded genuinely pleased to hear his voice. "How are you, my good friend?"

"Might I have a moment of your time, Clark?"

Clark gave him a verbal cue of affirmation. Layton drew in a deep breath.

"I'm sure you heard of the train accident?"

"Ah, yes I did," Clark confirmed. "How are you holding up, old boy?"

Layton brushed away the question while remaining somewhat polite. "I'm fine, thank you. Luke, is he alright?"

"What do you mean?"

The Professor's chest caved inwardly. His nightmare was starting to unfold before his eyes. "You mean he's not with you?"

Clark paused for nearly a full minute.

"No. No, he's not."


	4. Puzzle 003

Puzzle 003

Layton ran out of his office as if shot from the barrel of a gun. Luke's life was definitely at risk at this point, and based on the disappointment in Clark's voice, he did not want to face the consequences. Clark agreed to meet him at the train station as soon as his train would allow, approximately three hours, so Layton had time to collect as much evidence as possible as to Luke's whereabouts. Due to the accident and the lack of available manpower to remove the derailed train, an alternate route delayed all incoming and leaving trains from London.

The Inspector did not offer much support; the most he could do was tell Layton about his missed time. Once the train exploded and derailed, and the Inspector found Layton wandering about the train in a complete daze, they tried their best to piece together what he could remember at the time. The most Layton could relay to him at that moment were tidbits of how he managed to escape from the train. No one else was around to see how it happened or how he managed his escape, but there were other people on the train. According to Doctor Lerwick, they were not available for questioning.

Until then, Layton could only search for clues about town. If anything, whoever caused the explosion would want to toy with Layton, to make him squirm until the perpetrator had what he wanted or Layton showed some indication that he wanted to play the game. Whatever the game may be, Layton was somewhat prepared for it. Not entirely prepared mentally, but physically and emotionally he must be ready to take on anything.

For three hours, Layton had to find as much as he possibly could. There was nothing to stand in his way of finding Luke save for his own fears and his own faults. Occasionally his gentlemanly ways were a hindrance, particularly when the situation was desperate. Since he had little practice in lewdness, he did not know how to ask ladies for certain things (he once had to borrow a handkerchief from a lady, and he turned blood red from embarrassment). Above all, he did not know how to ask for help.

There was sadness to his step as he trudged about London's streets. Though people did not stare or whisper behind his back, everyone knew something was wrong. His students questioned why the "little boy" was not with him, and they felt that they should support the Professor in some way but were not sure how. For many, this was the first time they had seen Professor Layton hurt or depressed, and most of them could not stand the sight of it.

Brenda, Luke's mother, was yet to hear the news. Since Layton rang Clark at his office, she was not there for the discovery. But she would know soon enough; she would know when Clark did not return home that night, when he was not home for supper, when Luke did not step off the train. Layton could tell where Luke derived his questioning and curious nature. Clark, though he was schooled in university and graduated, never shared Layton or Luke's curiosity for the more unusual side of life. Clark did what he needed to get the job done, and very seldom ventured outside that philosophy.

Around town, people stopped to ask about Luke but Layton could not give them any answers. He did not know about Luke himself. The only thing he knew was that he felt somewhat empty without his apprentice. And there was still sadness yet to come; Flora did not know quite yet that Luke was not with him and that Layton had no clue where to start. If anything, she did not need to know. A gentleman always tended to the concerns of a lady, and since she was essentially his child, Layton wanted only for her happiness. To see her as sad and distraught as she was at St. Mystere would not only break Flora's heart but Layton's as well. He had no clue where to begin.

He headed for the train accident site once again, the awful place in which he crawled for his life through licking flames and choking smoke. Unfortunately he remembered very little of it, only that he escaped and rolled down a hill. Layton had no memory of meeting up with the Inspector or how he managed to go to hospital, how long it took, how long they questioned him. None of it was in his mind; it was all broken and shattered memories that he needed more information to piece together. There were no clues on his person; the only information available was a choppy statement he apparently gave to the Inspector the night of the accident and to Doctor Lerwick. That, unfortunately, was too little to use.

The only place he could think of starting was to look for clues within the front of the train, where the horrific explosion took place. After only two days, it was feasible that the city had not removed the train from the tracks at all but instead were using it for inspection. With the train still on the track, it delayed other trains coming into the city, giving Layton more of a distance between Clark and himself. Also if the train was yet to be moved, he had somewhat of a lead. That is, if anything was left of the front car. He was six cars behind. But that raised a question in his mind: how did he know of an explosion in the front of the car if he was so far back from it?

One plausible explanation was that he himself planted the bomb, though it was very unlikely. He had no motive whatsoever. And it would go entirely against his gentlemanly character: why would he do such a thing? There was no conceivable reason why. A second would be one of his enemies. Thought Don Paulo was certainly a formidable character, their recent events with the underground "future London" started a friendship between the two that neither could really explain. After so many years of fighting against one another though, it could stand to reason that Paulo still had some animosity left over. And of course, there was Clive. How Clive would escape from a London prison was beyond Layton but at this point, just about anything was possible.

The second question in Layton's mind was certainly the _why. _Why would anyone wish to cause him harm, and for what reason did the person target Luke specifically? Luke was certainly his protégé, and therefore the loss of such a person would devastate Layton greatly. And there was always a third possibility, that whoever committed the deed wanted only to hurt _Luke_. Apart from a few nasty boys at school, Luke had no true enemies. Even so, Layton taught Luke ages ago that disputes among gentlemen must be settled as such (Luke promptly argued that the other boys were not _gentlemen _in any sense of the word, therefore he did not find the need to treat them as such). Whether or not their issues were dissolved Layton would most likely never know.

Another thought crept through the cracks of Layton's mind, one he did not want to think of but at the same time could not ignore. There was always the sickening possibility that Luke left on his own in order to avoid going home. Occasionally Luke's letters appeared distraught at the impending return to the Triton estate; in the same letter he would complain that he missed his home yet prefer to stay in his old lodgings with Layton. Luke was still but a young man; Layton could not hold it against him.

His thoughts collided throughout his brain as if they were billiard balls. None of them had any sort of semblance, and they felt entirely disjointed. More than once, he needed to recollect his thoughts and deposit them into the present once again to back track after reaching a dead end in the roads. Though he felt that he could drive, Doctor Lerwick warned against and such an act and in his current, wandering condition he did not feel that driving the Laytonmobile would be appropriate.

Finally, his breath coming to him in rapid and shortened gasps that radiated throughout his abdomen, Layton reached the accident site. With such little memory of the events, the site of the broken, twisted, horrendously burned tubes of metal immediately took him back. One hundred feet away, two days ago, people perished in unspeakable ways. And worse yet, there was a dark possibility that much of the reason had to do with Layton.

He could see the front of the train in the daylight, its metal annihilated and burnt beyond recognition. Pieces were collected in a pile to the right of the knoll that he rolled from, most of it from the train's outer exterior. Down the middle of four cars ran series of gashes as if clawed through by an enormous wild animal. What caused such a thing Layton could only guess. The car that held his seat, car _F_, lay at an awkward, skewed angle and threatened to pitch over at any moment.

Policemen wandered to and fro in front of his bewildered eyes. Layton knew a good number of them which served in his advantage; none of them told him off. He inched towards the wreckage a few feet at a time, hoping to not overstep his boundaries. If Layton appeared out of place, he was in danger of losing his only opportunity to search the train. And he hoped, prayed beyond anything he had ever wanted in his life, that Luke was not on the train. _Safe_, and not on the train.

The glass that he busted through dangled precariously over the lip of the window. Using some sort of iron rod, possibly the same that he used to crash through the window, Layton scratched at the loose glass allowing him access without slicing his hands open. Giving himself a test pull to make sure his rather small weight would not cause the train to topple completely, Layton heaved himself into the train.

Thick, black, choking soot covered the seats and the carpet, blackening out the windows on the other side. Large chunks of glass warped under the intense heat, leaving them thin and brittle to the touch. He stared at the three large panes of glass which reminded him of a puzzle that his Dean told to him, but he did not have time at the moment to solve. It was very simple: a man was left in a room with no doors or no windows, so how did he make his escape?

The puzzle worked like oil on a piece of old machinery. He thought of the question, turning it over in his mind as if it were modeling clay. Something about the question itself seemed off, it was missing something. Layton looked around the car for some hint he could use, looking at the empty space that separated the cars themselves. He tilted his head to get a better look, then rubbed at his chin just to be sure. That was it!

Just because there were no doors or any windows did not mean that the room lacked a sill! A doorway would suffice, or a windowsill would do. In his own home, Layton had plenty of doorways that did not actually have a door, all of which he could easily walk through. That was the nature of some puzzles; occasionally the answer was simply so obvious that even the greatest of puzzle solvers thought far too deeply and missed the answer by a figurative mile. Layton's own mentor, Doctor Andrew Schrader, often fell victim to "over-thinking." Andrew's wonderful personality allowed him to shrug off mistakes as nothing more than pebbles in a bucket of stones. If there were one thing Layton did not learn from Schrader, it was his never-ending self-forgiveness.

Walking along the roof of the car, he found his own seat again. On what would have been his right, that is if the car were properly standing, was Luke's isle seat. Everything appeared intact save for the burn holes and soot stained upholstery. The young man typically preferred isle seats; he always wanted to interact with other patrons.

Layton could feel the minute changes in the train under his feet. It was almost as if the train wanted to completely fall apart on him but it was far too lazy to do so. He shuffled along slowly, allowing the train to settle with each step. The farther he made it down the line of cars, the safer he would be. Towards the front of the train, it rested against a tunnel wall, allowing the train to remain on the tracks.

The car that contained his seat did not offer anything in terms of clues, so he continued to make his way down the line. However, as he stepped across the threshold of the _F _car into that of the _E,_ his foot caught on something and he tumbled across. Looking back at his feet, he found himself entwined in a badly charred bit of rope. Slowly, as to not cause the rope to fall to pieces on him, he freed himself.

"Hmm," he thought aloud. "This rope seems unnecessary for a train, especially in a car as far back as mine."

Turning it over in his hands, he could feel the hint of something bubble inside his brain. The rope felt alarmingly familiar, as though he felt it before. Layton closed his eyes and mentally traced the thought back to its origin. He remembered his old orange shirt, the one with more holes the he could count and its unusual pattern on the front. Before the wreckage, it was simply an orange shirt, afterwards…there was an imprint of some kind, a symmetrical string of small _s _shapes across the chest that trickled down to his stomach. Searching farther back into the memory Layton came upon one that he was not sure how it fit with the memory of the shirt.

"You're going to die here," a sinister voice whispered into his ear. "This will be the end of you, the boy, and everyone on this train.

"And you're going to watch.."

That was it! The voice of the person, whoever it would be, was the key to Luke's disappearance, as well as the rope. Layton scratched at the ear the voice spoke into, remembering that the man (if anything, Layton remembered specifically that it was a male voice) stood to his right and whispered into his right ear. Just as Layton struggled against the ropes that bound him to the seat.

Layton stood slowly, allowing his bones to acclimate to standing, his joints popping audibly. Many questioned Layton's age, that secretly he was in his fifties or sixties, but he was merely half that. In his late thirties, a bachelor, a teaching job that accounted for most of his time outside puzzles, and somewhat raising two children on his own; if anything, he felt much older than he looked. Of course, his travels and various adventures often took their toll on his body, and many nights he sauntered into his bedroom hardly awake.

He wanted to view the front car but he felt unsure as to how to approach it. More policemen crowded around the explosion site than as far back as his own car, disabling him from coming too close. Layton had to try though; a gentleman did everything in his power to help others, even at the cost of himself. Inspector Chelmey would arrive soon anyway, and Layton knew he could use his persuasive powers to infiltrate the policemen.

This allowed him to return to the memory of the voice. In his mind, the voice was cool and collected, without accent other than English. There were no signs of the accent being forced or hidden, and Layton could understand the dialect perfectly. It was not from London though, and he could not place it. A northern accent was the best he could glean from the tiny snippet of a memory. And he remembered the man's breath tingling the back of his ear as if it were a feather.

He looked outside the window and smiled; Inspector Chelmey exercised his vocal chords by shouting at as many officers as he could within his immediate vicinity. Poor Barton stood at attention next to him, faithful as always despite the years of abuse the man endured up to this point. Layton could, and possibly _would_, never understand Chelmey and Barton's relationship and how that dynamic played out. It was certainly something that caused great concern for Layton.

Dropping down onto the knoll proved much more difficult than Layton initially thought. With his senses fully intact once again, he could see that the distance between the train and the grass was a bone-crushing distance if not landed properly; how he managed to the night of the train wreck Layton would most likely never know. He tried to aim the top half of his body so that if he fell at an awkward angle, he could easily correct himself and roll the remaining distance.

Taking a deep breath, he allowed himself to fall from the height. As his shoes touched the ground, he pitched backwards, landing on his backside and sliding the rest of the way on one knee. Luckily, the fall did not put any holes or tears in the fabric; to expose his backside would be entirely improper. Inspector Chelmey noticed his acrobatic attempt and trudged his massive frame over to Layton, not offering to help him rise. Barton doubled over his wide frame to assist Layton.

"Layton," the Inspector shouted. "Do not get yourself killed _before _we finish the investigation. That would not be good of you."

The Professor laughed aloud for the first time in days. "I am happy to be of any assistance that is necessary, Inspector." He brushed the dirt from the back of his trouser and coat. Very few actually saw Layton without his coat or his hat, and like his "anonymous hair" Layton wanted people to remember him as a gentleman who refused to lower himself. If anything, the air around him felt far too chilled to remove the article in question anyway.

Barton blew hot air into his already bright red fingers and palms. Chelmey completely ignored the cold, and instead turned his attention back to Layton.

"Do you have any leads on the boy?"

Layton's countenance immediately dropped. "Nothing yet, my good sir. Though I did remember something."

"What was it? Well, out with it, man."

"The person who did this, I remember is voice. He whispered something to me before he planted the explosive device. And I was tied to the seat."

Chelmey raised his eyebrow, a look of incredulity splattering across his face like paint. "You remember a voice? That's it? What am I to do with a memory of a voice! It does nothing to help solve the case!"

The Professor allowed Chelmey to rant and rave for a few moments before holding his hand up to stop him. Interrupting another was simply rude, and unbecoming of a gentleman; one must always wait for acknowledgement before speaking.

"May I, sir?" Chelmey nodded his massive head. "The memory at least narrows down the list of possible suspects. I know that the culprit was most certainly a male, and he needed to bend over to reach my ear, therefore I know that he was tall. His accent was northern, and he spoke perfect English. This certainly helps us filter through over half of London's current population."

"Half of how many? Millions live in London, Layton. How on earth or the deep blue sea do you expect me to search through millions of people in a very short amount of time?"

This was the first Layton heard of a timeframe, and the idea frightened him. "What sort of time, if I may be so bold?"

Chelmey scratched the back of his head, swimming through years of experience and book knowledge on the subject. "From my experience," he began, "you have all of three days before you are chasing a small corpse."

For the second time in a single day, Layton ran about the city of London. His abdomen started to hurt as he ran, slowing his progress and further laboring his ability to breathe. Three days? What could happen in three days? Everything and anything could happen, and there was no indication as to what to do about it or where to go next. The only thing he could think of would be to employ Clark's influence over city police and get his own city's taskforce involved. But rallying so many people and commuting them from three hours (or more) away would take more than three days. No, Layton had to involve everyone he knew or could reach within a matter of hours.

Flora had to know, that much was certain. Though Luke would never admit it, and possibly even deny the thought, she was more of a sister to him. Their squabbles were over "sibling issues" as Layton decided to name them, yet they both would share their deepest secrets among themselves. Since Layton had no siblings or living relatives, he never understood how the idea was possible: how could one share everything with another? What unseen, almost psychic force compelled someone to tell another his or her hopes and dreams? The only person Layton could ever do such a thing was with Claire, and Claire was gone. Luke knew bits and pieces of Layton's personal life, but most likely the boy would never know the puzzle that was Professor Layton.

His students could also help, though Layton did not know how. His current classes were a hodgepodge of people in various age ranges and walks of life. Many students he taught for free of charge, although it hurt his own finances to do so. He held his students to a higher expectation than most other professors, and he did not coddle them in any way, but Layton only wanted his students to succeed at whatever they pursued. Some of the time he served as advisor, both academically and in personal problems. The Professor was proud to say that he knew the names of every last one of his students, and often studied his roster late into the night. Due to his giving attitude, many of his students would do nearly anything for him if asked. Layton did not want to impose, but with the cost of Luke's life dangling in front of him and just out of reach, he felt willing to try nearly anything.

Amongst all the chaos that was the past two days, Layton remembered that he forgot to cancel class. This would prove to be advantageous; meeting with one of his classes, and having them spread the word to the others, he could inform them of Luke's disappearance and request their help all at once. As he stepped into his office once again though, he nearly forgot about his class.

Flora stood next to his desk, plucking the gloves from her fingers. "Professor," she stated, a near undetectable tone of panic in her voice. "You received a letter while you were gone. Why did you not tell me about Luke?"


	5. Puzzle 004

Puzzle 004

Flora closed her tired, puffy red eyes and buried her head in Layton's chest. Twenty minutes ago he completed the difficult task of detailing the train wreck as well as Luke's disappearance, although he wanted desperately to avoid the subject. A gentleman always protects and upholds the feelings of a lady, and it saddened Layton to see his adopted daughter in such a state.

Very few women in Layton's life needed a shoulder to cry on, as it were. Unfortunately he had no clue how to progress.

"Flora," he soothed, pulling her from him to look into her eyes. "Flora, listen to me. You know as much as I that I would do anything to get him back. And you have my word that I will bring him home safely. Now, does a gentleman ever break his promise to a lady?"

The young woman hiccupped and shook her head, tears slowly cascading down her pale face. Three days ago, a mere seventy-two hours, Flora proudly wore the small apple-shaped birthmark on her neck, something about her that Layton loved. However, the birthmark came with a condition; only when she laughed or felt genuinely happy did the mark appear. Three days ago she felt happy, and now Layton was the cause of more unhappiness than he could handle for a day. Whatever science was behind the elusive birthmark, Layton would openly admit that it was one of her best qualities.

Since Layton had very little knowledge of the female realm, he often transposed some of his "gentlemanly habits" onto Flora. "Now, now, my dear; a lady does her best not to cause a scene," he cooed, adjusting his hat. In the entire year she lived with him, she was yet to see the top of his head. Once she remarked that for all she knew, he did not have a skull on top, merely an exposed brain. In one unfortunate encounter late into the evening she witnessed Layton in his evening gown and robe as he was returning to bed. Even then, he still wore his hat.

Clark would arrive within the next couple hours, and Layton dread the encounter from the tips of his toes on up. Something about Clark's voice when they ended the call unnerved the Professor, and since he was miles across a telephone line he could not gauge Clark's expression. The best that Layton could do at the moment was comfort Flora and read over the letter she gave him.

The paper was ordinary stationary that one would find in any desk drawer, but the handwriting stood out. The style dipped and curved gracefully, _t_'s were crossed with lengthy lines, and letters with descenders (those that dipped below the line such as _y, g, p, _and so on) ended with flare. This was definitely the writing of an educated person, and one who practiced the art of penmanship on a daily basis.

Another aspect was certainly the message itself. Whoever wrote the letter wrote simply, though the message felt cryptic to Layton. "Layton," it read. "Meet at the place where the walkway divides, where the arms of industry reach to the sky." Finally at the bottom of the page read a time, eight in the evening. The Professor glanced at the large clock on his wall; he had only four hours from the time Clark would arrive to the time he needed to solve the puzzle and meet Luke's captor, if it were the same person at all.

Leaving Flora to her own grief, Layton paced his office. The letter did not make sense, unless it referred to a monument of some sort. How could a walkway divide, unless there was a break in the pavement or a gap between the slabs of concrete? Also, how could said breaks in stone reach to the sky? It made absolutely no sense to him, and the thoughts twisted his brain.

As the clock ticked away and approached his class time, he felt his heart start to pound against his sternum. The dull ache in his abdomen started to throb in sync with his heart, expanding and contracting every few seconds. When he changed into his new clothes, Layton studied the contusion carefully. A web of angry purple and deep blue expanded across his stomach and down his hip with the outline of his ribs creating an abrupt stop underneath his breast. How is ribcage managed to remain intact confounded him.

As he trudged to his class, which he already knew would last only a few minutes, Lora shuffled behind him. She held her head downward, very much like her time spent at St. Mystere, and avoided anyone's gaze. Though older than Luke, but not by much as Luke loved to point out, Flora's height reached only to the Professor's shoulder, allowing her to appear much younger than her actual age. She wrapped her hand around two of Layton's finger as she followed in order to avoid getting lost in the deluge of students switching classes. At one point, Layton pulled her underneath his arm and held her close to himself, somewhat as a means of comfort, but mostly so no one trod on her.

Typically Layton arrived early for class, though today he had only a minute to spare. His students sat in their usual spots, crammed together in the theatre as if they were riding the early morning London underground. Most days they were a rowdy group, especially this group in particular. The moment he opened the door, however, they immediately quieted. Flora let go of Layton's hand long enough to find a seat in the corner of the front row, whereupon she quickly averted her eyes to the desk. On any other given day she would chatter with the other students, and more than one occasion even interrupting Layton's class to comment. Today though she refused to meet anyone's gaze.

Layton sauntered to the front of the room, leaning against the front of the desk. Most days he took his time preparing for his lectures, and often kept them in the small drawer of his desk. When he did not pull the lesson plan from the drawer, his students began to fidget in their seats. "Is something wrong, Professor?"

He looked up towards the direction of the voice and spotted Charley, one of his youngest students, waving his hand in the back row. Layton forced a smile and took a deep breath. "Well," he began. "As all of you are well aware my apprentice, Luke, left last year to begin secondary school. Fewer of you know that in only a few days time he reaches another year of life." A number of students piped in with birthday congratulations, and Layton smiled in a sad sort of way. "Thank you all; I will certainly give him the message as soon as he is found."

The room exploded in a litany of expressions that Layton could not understand at all. Some students stood in their spots, obviously angry though the Professor could not hear their speech. Students whispered left and right to each other, a few tried to address Layton personally, but eventually the noise became overwhelming. Flora looked on the verge of tears once again, though she bravely held them back to save face.

Layton motioned for his students to quiet. On most class days they hardly spoke a word unless the topic were particularly interesting or Layton gave them a puzzle to solve (he typically included one of his easier puzzles on tests to help those with lower grades). Charley, the young man in the back, was one of the few students who went into archaeology for his career although his grades suggested he look into something else. He was the first to help hush everyone else.

"Thank you, Charley." Layton pulled the infrequently used chair from the desk and dropped himself into it. "If at all possible, I would like to request your assistance in finding him. Most of you know who else attends my class, so if you would kindly pass the word along I would greatly appreciate it. As of right now there is no reward for locating him, and unfortunately I do not have enough funds to offer anything substantial, but I fear that his life is in the balance. If anyone sees him, or can find any sort of clue as to where he might be…" Layton trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

An older woman (well, older in the sense that she was in her older twenties compared to the average age of the rest of the class) raised her hand when the class quieted. "Yes, Mindy?"

"What about class, Professor?"

This caught Layton off guard. The thought of the distant future, as distant as two days from now, was one of the last items on his priority list. "Well," he stuttered, bringing his hand to his chin. "In all honesty it was not something that I thought of. I am sure one of the other professors could teach my class until this fiasco is solved. Apart from that, I will most likely cancel class."

A collective murmur of excitement buzzed about the room. Layton could remember from his own collegiate experience that a missed class was something of a welcome rarity, so he could understand their hope. However, he quickly shot them down.

"You are not out of the woods yet, though," he smirked. "You will still receive the assignment."

Layton stood on the train platform, Flora leaning against his chest for comfort. The act may be misconstrued as inappropriate, but Layton could see how such innocent physical affection could replace what words alone could not express. In the early days of Flora's adoption, she often spontaneously hugged him, and once even kissed his cheek out of sheer joy; at the time Layton did not know how to react, but after a year he chalked such actions to her social personality. Even after six months though, Layton still blushed from the tip of his forehead and down into his neck each time she did so. Once, after seeing such an exchange and Layton's reaction, Luke became concerned that the Professor was choking.

Day by day, Flora inched her way deeper into his heart. Layton never expected such a thing to occur, in fact he thought just the opposite. When he first realized that Flora was actually the "golden apple" of St. Mystere he was under the impression that she would live at the estate and write occasionally, that he would have majority control over her finances, and that would be it. When she suggested that she return to London with Luke and the Professor, inwardly the idea floored him. How did one raise a teenage girl, especially a university professor with little experience with women as it is? What of her memories, her hopes, her dreams, her feelings towards her late father? The thing that troubled Layton above all would be her relationship with Luke, and how Luke would react to another person in Layton's life.

As much as Layton tried to make equal time for his "children," occasionally one demanded more attention than the other. Luke's adventurous nature saw him gallivanting across the country with him, often leaving Flora behind, much to her dismay. Typically when they returned home both listened to an earful about how improper it may be to leave a lady alone for days on end, despite the possible dangers involved. On the other hand, Flora often asked to go to the park or walk along the Thames and be the social being that she was progressing towards, which Luke abhorred with a passion. It appeared that there was a correlation between his relationships with them both; the more one demanded, the less the other received. The less one received, the more hurt he or she became.

As much as Layton did not want to, he viewed them as a puzzle. But this puzzle had too many flexible variables that would work one day, then fail the next. And there was no humanity in puzzles. They were meant to be brain teasers and thoughts with which to pass the time, they did not apply to young adults. Layton loved both of them, would do anything in his power for them, and he refused to turn his relationship with them both into a game. Due to his gentlemanly training, in which there was more focus on interacting with another person than with true intimate feelings, love in any form did not come easily for the Professor. People acknowledged that he was a caring, kind, genuine person, but he in turn held some people at a distance. Very few people did he consider extremely close. Thinking deeply, he could count them on one hand.

That is not to say he did not have his share of mutual acquaintances, or people whom he enjoyed his or her company. Barton's childlike nature and love of food, for instance, allowed the Professor to quiet his mind and relax for just a while. Even Chelmey had his moments of interest or humor. Everyone, regardless of age, had interesting life experiences and stories that Layton loved to listen to. Much of his knowledge of other subjects came from his students who saw connections between his class and that of their other studies. Even Flora, whose knowledge of archaeology bordered on nil, contributed to his class on the random occasions she wanted to attend.

And there they stood, Layton holding her against him as if he were an anchor, that if he let go she would float away somehow. Through the storm that is Luke's disappearance, he tried his best to remain cool and collected, if anything than for her sake. On the way to the train station, she voiced that meeting another person worried her, especially Luke's father. Neither she nor Layton could know his demeanor in a time such as this, and Flora feared what Clark would do.

The train would arrive at any moment, and there were no delays as far as the station supervisor could foresee. Layton never, at any moment from the time he telephoned Clark to this point, considered the possibility of harm befalling the father of his friend as well. The close the time drew for the train to arrive, the more anxious Layton became over the idea. Also, Layton would not know until Clark arrived whether or not someone informed Brenda.

At last, the train in question crawled into place next to the platform, announcing its arrival with a squeal of the whistle. Suddenly the station came alive as if it were a well oiled machine; conductors changed shifts, mechanical engineers inspected the cars, arrival and departure times were quickly updated, people floated in and out. Layton and Flora stood in the same spot, allowing everything to pass by them as if frozen in place. Flora brushed away her silent tears.

Clark appeared just as the conductor called for the next group of passengers to board. His gangly frame peered from the middle car, his face worn and distraught. From his tousled appearance, Clark looked as though he slept fitfully in the uncomfortable seat of the train. Layton flashed a crooked smile, though his eyes suggested intense despair.

Standing Luke and Clark side by side, one would say the boy favored his father. However, standing Luke and Brenda side by side others would say he favored his mother. From Clark, Luke inherited the man's cowlicks, with his hair standing at odd angles atop his head. Luke's small nose and (within the next few years) wiry frame also suggested his father. Brenda contributed the boy's wet-sand hair color and (at least when Luke was a very young boy) his chubby cheeks. Above all, apart from Luke's inquisitive nature, Brenda gave him his wonderfully inquisitive and bright eyes that lit up like a streetlamp when he discovered something.

Layton let go of Flora long enough to wave Clark over. The closer the thin man came, the more she retreated behind the Professor as if she were a young child. Clark stuck out his hand and pumped Layton's own as if he were on some sort of mission.

"Hershel," he stated, no ounce of familiarity coating his voice whatsoever.

"Clark, it's always wonderful to see you." Layton smiled at him, though it quickly turned bittersweet. "I just wish we could've seen each other among better circumstances. Have you met Flora?"

Clark relinquished Layton's hand and turned towards the young woman. "No, I do not believe I've had the pleasure. Wonderful to finally meet you, my dear; Hershel speaks of you often." Flora merely murmured something and turned her attention to some other commotion at the tail end of the train, allowing Clark to return to Layton. "Well, what happened?"

"If I may, Clark, I prefer to relay the story without the company of the young lady. I am afraid to say that the story is not an easy one."

"You were injured," confirmed Clark. "Let's see it."

The embarrassment on Layton's face spread so fast he looked as if he were hit with a tomato. Layton turned his back towards Flora and untucked his shirt, allowing Clark to see the disturbing array of purple and black that covered his stomach. Clark inspected the contusion with the same appreciation that the doctor viewed him. Finally he spoke.

"I see that you are still mobile, however. Nothing broken, then?"

"Surprisingly, no. My doctor gave me some medicine for the pain, and I've done my best not to aggravate it."

Flora chirped in from a few feet away. "Then why did we run much of the way here, Professor?"

This elicited a smile from both Clark and Layton, the first either of them did so in quite some time. Clark allowed himself a moment to straighten himself, fixing his tie and smoothing out the wrinkles in his coat. Once he stood up to his full awkward height, Layton gestured towards the exit of the station, Flora latched on to his fingers once again. Layton felt as if she reverted to that of a childlike state, but with the events over the course of the past year he could also understand her fear. Allowing new people into her life, especially those on a personal level or someone connected to one she loved, was difficult for her. The thought that within a very short amount of time that new person would leave her or would be gone scared her beyond recognition.

To save time, and after the realization that a larger group took much more time to travel, Clark called for a taxicab. Waiting for the cab, Layton thought about how he acquired his own car (modified to the point that Luke and much of the city referred to it as the "Laytonmobile"). The day Layton went to the dealership and told the car dealer what he wanted changed, the dealer presented him with a riddle. Layton could remember the day down to the cocky sneer of the auto dealer.

"Well, sir," he jeered. "After viewing four different cars, what are you thinking?"

Layton pointed to the squat red car on the end. "This one, but I prefer the roof of the car to be higher."

"Higher? For what purpose, sir?"

"My hat. A gentleman never removes his hat out in public, sir."

The dealer raised his eyebrow as if the concept were absolutely foreign. Then a bemused expression crawled across his scheming face. "Alright then, I think that is something I can do. But first you must answer something for me. If you can give me the correct answer, I will do the changes for free." Layton shrugged and smiled, ready for anything. Luke, who was with him at the time and still in the single-digit-age-range sat in the driver's seat and played with the steering wheel. His feet did not even reach past the seat itself.

"A man buys a car that cost upwards of $5,000," the dealer began. "However, he did not pay a single penny for it. How could that be?"

Layton tilted his head to check on Luke inside the car, then tapped his chin. After motioning for Luke to stop wriggling the gear shift back and forth, he looked back at the dealer. "Why would anyone pay a sum of that nature in pennies?" The dealer's face turned to that of pure incredulity. "Usually one pays for such an amount in a cheque or bank notes, not coins."

Without another word, Layton plucked the key from the dealer's hand and opened the driver's door, forcing Luke to scramble to the back seat. "I will return the car tomorrow for its upgrade; until then, might I expect it done by next week?"

A bright yellow taxicab scooted up next to the three, its cabbie sporting a thick mustache that rivaled Barton's. Both Clark and Layton allowed Flora in first, and then had their own minute squabble as to who would enter the cab next. Finally Clark conceded and hopped into the back seat, leaving Layton on the sidewalk. As he bent to enter the cab, his stomach exploded into such breathtaking pain that he most likely blacked out. Upon waking he had no clue as to how he ended up on the ground.

"Hershel! Hershel, are you alright?" Clark leaned over him, tapping on the side of Layton's face. The pain in his abdomen pulsated as if he were struck with a cricket bat, and his breath wheezed in and out of his chest. The pain hurt so intensely that his toes curled within his boots.

Layton looked up into the darkening sky above them, spots running circles before his eyes. Flora's soft hair tickled the side of his face and brought him back down to Earth. "What the devil happened?"

"A young man slammed into you out of nowhere, and you collapsed," Clark detailed, helping Layton to his feet. Thunder rumbled miles away as he stood, alerting them to the impending storm that would soon attack the city of London. They needed shelter, quickly.

On his feet once again, Layton leaned against Clark for support and maneuvered his way back into the taxi. The pain in his abdomen clouded every one of his thoughts and distorted his thinking. As Flora and Clark returned to their seats within the cab, allowing the cabbie to depart. Layton rested his head against the glass, allowing the coolness to distract him from the numbing pain. He wanted to black out once again, to crash into a black void that with it swallowed all the soreness in his body. This would free him from the hours of hurt he knew he would feel later.

Clark, with his safety belt intact, stretched himself to look back at Layton. "I know you are not in the best condition to tell me, but I would like to know what is going on, Hershel." His flat tone suggested that Clark wanted to return to business.

"When Brenda rang and informed me she wanted him home for his birthday, I decided to go pick him up myself. And everything was fine, then; we had no problems whatsoever." Layton paused and closed his eyes, trying his best to piece together the moments leading up to the wreckage. "It all happened sometime after dark; Luke was asleep by then. The only clear memory I have after that is being tied to my seat and a man whispering into my ear."

Clark plucked a small notebook from his pocket, similar to the way Luke scribbled everything he thought would be important on an adventure. Flora held Layton's hand to grab his attention.

"Who is Brenda?"

Both men answered her status as a wife simultaneously. Layton smiled as best he could at her to calm her underlying sense of confusion. Another spasm of pain attacked his stomach, forcing Layton to accidentally squeeze her hand a bit too tight. She yelped in return as Clark gestured for him to continue.

"Who was the man," he asked. "Do you know him?"

"No, though he seems familiar. It makes no sense to me; why would anyone want to hurt either of us? And those that do are behind Scotland Yard bars, I can assure you."

Clark shrugged his shoulders. "Does not necessarily have to be someone you know. And you do make the papers quite a bit, Professor; you as well as my son. And there is always the possibility that the offender is an old student of yours."

The thought never crossed his mind. As much as Layton tried to assist his students so that they succeeded, occasionally one did fall through the cracks and failed the class. Also, when Luke still lived with him he attended an archaeology class about as frequently as Flora, if not a bit more. Much of the time he solved the class daily puzzle faster than any of the students, and a few actually requested that the boy stopped coming to class. Luckily, Luke left for school before the Professor could relay the message.

The sharp twists and turns of London wreaked havoc on his abdomen, sending ugly stabs of pain that circulated throughout his entire body. The medicine that Doctor Lerwick gave him earlier in the day rested on the desk in his office; the thought that he would need it at a train station never occurred to him. Layton felt like vomiting each time the car pulled up to a red light, the safety strap pulling at his stomach.

How he felt physically constantly conflicted with his gentlemanly training. Time after time he told Luke to put the plight of others ahead of oneself. Layton could proudly say that more than once he risked his own life to help that of another, but as far as he could remember none of those times included him with a potentially debilitating condition. For a moment, he considered returning to Doctor Lerwick just in case the blow from the boy finally cracked a bone somewhere, but at this point she most likely would tell him the same thing: rest and recuperation.

Once the taxi grew close to the school, Layton prepared himself for the physical exertion that would follow. His classroom and office lay on the third floor of the natural science building, to the right of the physics department and to the left of the geology building. Layton loved the fact that geology was right next to his office; often they worked together, helping each other when someone found something new he or she could not identify, or when Layton wanted information as to why an artifact decayed or not. Because of this, he often shared lunch with members of the geology faculty. Although he did not grow particularly close to anyone in particular, at times it was nice just to have company for a while close to his own academic level.

Parked, they exited the cab slowly. Flora bundled herself against the wind that picked up as if let out of a cage, and immediately Layton attempted to remove his own coat out of sheer habit. In his earlier days of gentlemanly training, he often forgot to request the coat back once the weather warmed; after so many years Layton forgot how many coats he lost. Luckily, since Flora lived with him, he often found the coat lying on a chair or even the breakfast table days later. In this situation though, Clark wrestled his coat off first.

As he stretched and reacclimated to standing, they slowly maneuvered up the steps to Layton's office. To keep his mind focused, the trio created a working plan for what to do next.

"I believe we should call Inspector Chelmey away from the accident site," Layton theorized. "I doubt he will find much more there, unless there was a clue that I missed. There is also the issue of the letter that we must decipher. It makes little sense to me."

Clark held out is hand and traded Layton his medication for the paper. "Might I see it? 'Meet at the place where the walkway divides, where the arms of industry reach to the sky.' Industry, industry. You must meet him at an industrious place, it seems. But that could literally be any part of London."

Layton nodded his head and placed his hand on his chin. "This is very true. But the first component, 'where the walkway divides.' Also that industry reaches to the sky? All three conditions must intersect to solve the riddle."

Flora busied herself with making tea, occasionally turning her head to listen to their conversation. She figured that if all possible, if she simply kept her mind occupied and busy concentrated on something else, she could also block out the horrible feelings associated with the situation. As she prepared to pour the steaming hot liquid, she turned her attention to the model that crowded the back of Layton's bottom shelf. Out of every item on all the shelves in the office, the Tower Bridge replica actually had a working crank to lower and raise the two halves of the bridge. She carefully retrieved the model from the shelf and placed it on the desk in front of her. As the tea cooled, Flora turned the crank that slowly raised the drawbridge.

Clark and Layton continued their discussion. "What about the most industrious parts of the city? The city is in process of building yet another tall structure on the lower east side and the beams of the building may be what the arms refer to," Layton pondered aloud. Clark's small head bobbled up and down.

"That is a possibility. What about the newest factories or automobiles? Arguably they could be considered industrious."

Flora picked the tea pot and loaded everything onto the tray, ready to serve both men and herself, the sides of the model bridge left standing. As she turned around though, she did a double take and lost her grip on the tray. Layton and Clark visibly jumped, a reflection of the stress that played games with their nerves.

"My dear," Layton asked, extremely concerned. "Are you alright?"

Flora completely ignored him. "Professor, I have it! The bridge!"

As Clark plucked bits of broken china from the floor, he looked up at her with absolute confusion. "Whatever do you mean, Miss Flora?"

"The arms of the bridge. Look at your model; do you see how the bridge raises and points upward? Also, I do know that there is a walkway on either side of the street. So when the sides of the bridge are raised, the walkway divides in half."

Both men's skulls bounced back and forth from each other to Flora as if watching a tennis match. Suddenly Layton kissed the top of Flora's head and darted for the staircase, he plans of calling Chelmey completely abandoned.

Layton allowed Clark the use of the Laytonmobile in the interest of time and available funds (by now the bank Layton typically used would most likely be closed). He seldom kept pocket change beyond that which he figured practical.

They drove in silence, keeping their attention on the problem at hand as well as the possibility that the weather would attack them at any given moment. Of course, there was always the awful possibility that Flora's solution was also wrong. Given only a half hour until eight in the evening, they could not afford to be wrong.

Clark left the car underneath a brightly lit lamp post in the middle of a busy street only two blocks away. If they walked to the Tower Bridge instead of driving up in his recognizable car, the three could possibly view the perpetrator without his or her knowledge, allowing them to form a plan of action. Unfortunately, Layton grew so focused and intent on meeting the person in question, he also forgot to remove his top hat.


	6. Puzzle 005

Puzzle 005

Standing at the bridge and trying to appear as inane as humanely possible, Layton surveyed his surroundings. Tower Bridge looked exactly like every visit he made to the site, with the beautiful clock of Big Ben standing before him. Lit up and shining bright, the clock was arguably Layton's favorite location within the city. More than once did he solve a puzzle or a crime that eventually returned to the giant time piece. Just to be sure, he pulled his own watch from the front pocket of his coat and compared his own time to that of Big Ben's. Within ten minutes, something would happen, whether for good or for ill.

As the minutes ticked by, Layton thought of his own battles with time and the chaos that it brought him less than a year ago. Clive, who created an underground city in order to force Layton's friend, Doctor Stahngun, into creating a working time machine, also held the responsibility for permanently ending Layton's relationship with the one love of his life. However, Layton also received something most people only dream of: the chance to see and spend time with her once again, if only for a few brief moments.

Letting go of her once again, though, devastated Layton. Adding to the hurt, Luke would leave only a few months later for school. While the event should be joyous, and as much as he tried to remain brave for the sake of Luke and Flora, at night when the world fell silent and left him along with his negative and oppressive thoughts, Layton felt beyond depressed. Once he allowed himself time to grief, to recognize that what he felt was perfectly natural and that he _should _feel so hurt, allowed him to recover rather quickly. Some days the same negative feelings appeared on the fringes of his emotions, but when he thought of all of his favorite memories of Claire, he immediately felt much better.

For the week after Luke left, Layton instructed the boy not to write him. Though he told the young man that it was for Luke's own benefit, that the lack of writing would help him adjust to his new surroundings, it was also beneficial to Layton. He felt unsure of his resolve, that if Luke complained of anything Layton would not be on the next boat to the school to bring the boy back to London. Ideally, Clark should be the one Luke wrote home to, and Layton knew that Clark felt horrid because of the lack of letters, but there was little either could do. The more Layton suggested that Luke write to his father, the more Luke opposed the idea.

Two minutes until the instructed hour and Layton began to grow anxious. Something about the way the air smacked at his face and threatened to steal his top hat from him unnerved him. A few hours ago the weather lazed about and bumped into him haphazardly just to remind him that wind existed, but at the moment it ripped and clawed at the three of them with full force. A few passersby pulled their own coats up around their necks to block the shrill cold and ran to their own prospective abodes.

The hairs on Clark's arms stood at attention, his knuckles blood red. He blew into his folded hands to warm them. Each time any of them breathed the cloud that remained hung in the air as if frozen by some invisible force, and then disappeared as if it never existed. Suddenly Big Ben screamed at the city, announcing the time and echoing off any possible alley in reply. Eight o'clock, and Tower Bridge was completely devoid of anyone else save the three of them.

Layton started to worry if they chose the proper location. The thought that somewhere else in the city a faceless being waited for them to arrive, and when Layton did not show it would essentially be the end of Luke. He could see the hurt and panic start to creep into Clark's eyes, and his Adam's apple bobbed as the large hand indicated a minute after.

"He's not here," Clark whispered. "It's past the time indicated and he's not here. Where's my son, Hershel?" His voice became louder and quicker with every word as he frantically paced about and rubbed the back of his neck. Flora bit the bottom of her lip to hold back tears.

Layton held up his hands to calm them both. "Alright, no one panic, I am sure-"

"Layton!"

A voice boomed from the other side of the bridge. Underneath the piercing voice, muffled yelps punctuated his phrases.

"Sorry for arriving late, Professor; a squirming little boy is difficult to drag from one end of the city to the other."

Layton peered into the darkness for the source of the voice. Slowly, a shadowy figure inched out of the blackness at the far end of the Bridge. The most Layton could see was the bottom of the person's face. With a quick movement, Luke dropped from the shadows, slamming into the ground with an audible _thump. _Clark rushed forward to retrieve his son, but stopped when he heard a horrifying _click_.

"One more step, Triton, and you will have no one to carry on your family name," the voice giggled. Then Layton could see the source of Clark's pause; behind Luke's head, nuzzled deep into the boy's unkempt hair, rested a small revolver. Whoever held it did not wait to continue. "Have you ever thought about the process of a gunshot, Layton?"

The Professor remained silence, his attention focused on Luke. The young man sat as still as possible on the freezing ground, his shaking shoulders exposed to the elements. Tears leaked down his pink cheeks. Clark did not know how to continue; part of him wanted to dash for his son, another part knew that the slightest move would also be the death of Luke. Inwardly he panicked, but outwardly he tried to assure the young boy. Nearly every memory of his son Clark could drum up played throughout his mind as if he were watching a film. Luckily, Clark was there for nearly everything in Luke's young life; the day the boy learned to crawl, to walk, to recognize Clark as his father. When Clark accepted more political responsibility and became mayor of the city in which they lived, he wanted only the best for his family. Unfortunately this came at the cost of his relationship with his son, and both Clark and Luke knew this.

Luke came to live with Layton when the boy turned seven years old. Prior to that Layton spent as much time with Luke as he physically could in order to make the move much more smooth; at first Luke shied away from the "funny short man with the big topper" but over time Luke looked forward to his visits. Secretly, Clark, Layton, and Brenda knew that the Triton's inability to properly attend to the little boy prompted the decision to send him away. Initially, the idea that Luke would be his "apprentice" (something a young man did not typically do until his teenage years) was simply a ruse, something to lessen the hurt Luke would most surely feel.

The faceless voice brought Layton and Clark out of their thoughts. "Listen to me, Layton. Have you ever seen a gun work in slow motion? Have you?" Layton shook his head, his eyes trained on Luke. "All you must do then, Hershel, is shoot someone. It's a beautiful device, really; within each bullet is a chamber of powder that when struck by a tiny, miniscule hammer will explode and send a small bit of steel flying at lightening fast speeds. Then it pierces the person in question's chest, and if you're lucky comes out back the other side. It's beautiful, is it not?"

Layton struggled to control his voice. "I do not believe I can agree with you, whoever you may be."

"But this is life, Layton! To watch so much blood explode in a wonderful cloud of deep, crimson red is just like watching life spew forth in a showery bubble. Think about it, Hershel; no art in the entire world can compare." The owner of the voice stretched his think fingers outward and ruffled Luke's hair, causing Layton to tighten his grip into a white-knuckled fist.

"What do you want with him," Layton pleaded. "What do you want that neither of us could give you?"

Whoever stood in the shadows did not hear Layton, that or he simply did not listen. "What if you could expose someone's thoughts, Layton? What if you could bring a person's most base thinking to the outside world for everyone to see?"

Clark fidgeted as if ready to ignite. "What on earth are you talking about? Show yourself!"

"In due time, Mister Triton. Of course, my good sirs, I speak only of the brain. It's an amazing organ; did you know that it feels no pain? And yet it can often be the cause of so much to others. And once scratched or hurt in any way, the person could possibly die. It does so much for us useless humans and yet we very seldom appreciate it. But you, Layton…no, you pay due homage to your magnanimous brain."

"I fail to see what any of your superfluous words have to do with young Luke," Layton argued.

The three of them could hear the voice snicker from the shadows. Flora latched on to Layton's arm and refused to let go, tightening her grip as the blank figure spoke. "This boy means nearly everything to you, Layton. You could lose any possession you own, every artifact in your office, even your precious top hat if the brat required you to do so. And yet it does not seem entirely logical, does it?"

"In what way?"

"'In what way'?" The voiced giggled as if he were a small child. "Surely you must be joking, Layton. You work your entire life to acquire all those pretty things and sit on your shelves, your status at the University, even the love of your life. And yet you could lose them at any moment; in fact you did lose one aspect in a single moment, didn't you?"

Layton tried to work through the present problem as the voice continued to prattle on. Whoever the voice belonged to obviously knew every aspect of the life Layton led down to his abruptly ended relationship with Claire years ago. The man had been studying Layton's life for some time to remember so many intimate details.

"Listen to me, Professor!" The voice became distraught and impatient when he realized he did not have Layton's full attention. "If you want the boy back alive, or even his corpse for all I care, _I challenge you to a battle of wits_."

Suddenly the memories of the last year collided into the front of Layton's brain as if they were an out of control automobile. He knew the voice, he knew everything about the thin, scared man behind it. Between then and now his voice hardened and lost the flare it once contained. Terrible events that Layton could only fathom broke the man as well as his speech, destroying any sort of frivolity it once contained. Between the last year and this, the voice became changed from that of a young man with so much potential and life in him to that of a tough, deranged man.

"If you want him back, all you have to do is solve some puzzles," the voice continued. "Check your pockets, I'm sure you will find a small gift I had a young man leave you, along with the unfortunate blow to your stomach. I can assure you, Professor, I did not intend for Smithey to do such a thing; in fact, I specifically forbade him from hurting you."

Layton frantically clawed through every pocket on his new coat, searching for whatever the voice spoke of. In a large pocket on the right inside breast pocket, his fingers brushed against something smooth and sharp. After a brief wrestle with the pocket, he yanked the paper from its cloth cage.

"You need not read it now, Professor. I can assure you the words will not change between now and whenever you have the time." The owner of the voice reached out and yanked Luke backwards by his collar. Though Luke's mouth was not bound, each time he tried to speak his captive tugged back on the collar as if he were a disobedient dog. "Until we meet again, my good sirs, and Miss flora, nothing will befall the boy.

"But should you not succeed, well…God help his soul."

The three rode back to Layton's home in silence, Flora's sniffles occasionally echoing from the back seat. Clark and Layton sat in the front seats, Clark driving once again. The wiry man's grip on the steering wheel threatened to snap it in half.

Never in his life did he imagine that he must tell his son to leave with a killer, that his little boy could not come home with him and that he must do whatever the evil man said. Clark remembered when Luke was roughly four years old, the little boy woke up most nights terrified that someone would steal him away in the night. Less than a decade later, some of Luke's worst fears started to come true. Clark almost hated himself for saying such things; if he knew that one day he would tell his son to leave with a deranged killer, he most likely would never have told Luke that such evil did _not _exist in the world. Now, both equally know that such evil is alive and well.

Layton could not fathom what Clark felt at the moment. He had his own feelings of deep loss and hurt, but Layton imagined that losing one's own child was possibly one of the worst traumas to ever experience. However, Layton's intuition told him that Luke's captor did not have the fortitude to seriously harm Luke. Something about the way he spoke, even down to talking about shooting another, seemed forced and out of place. Maybe the young man saw someone else commit the act, but most likely he himself never did so. The young man in question did not have the will to do so heinous a deed.

Of course, this was under the condition that the perpetrator was not forced or prodded into doing so. They simply had to solve puzzles, something Layton did nearly every day of his life. But what sort of puzzles? Brain teasers and riddles were vastly different than physical trails. That raised another question; how dangerous might the "puzzles" be? Layton would easily risk his life to save that of Luke's, and it stood to reason that the perpetrator would want to trade a life for that of another. It was a sick and demented trade, one that seemed unfair on so many levels. But Layton would do what was necessary. Luke had so much life left to live, it would not be fair for him to lose it unnecessarily.

Flora curled herself into a tight ball in the back seat. It was a very unladylike position in which to sit, but Layton could not fault her at the moment. She watched the buildings of London pass before her eyes though she showed no affection for them. Every year the buildings grew taller and taller; Layton's small family figured that eventually the buildings would become far too tall and the entire city would simply live on top of one another. The building which housed Layton's own flat also held three other families of various sizes.

Before Luke and Flora, Layton chose the flat in anticipation of his life with Claire. Well before he began his courtship with her she often spoke of children at some point in her life. Admittedly, Layton was so smitten with her he really could not care one way or another. Once their relationship came to an abrupt halt, so did the idea of anyone occupying the rooms; Layton used them primarily as an at-home office and a guest room, which Luke eventually took over. With the addition of Flora came the need to request a larger office at the University so he had somewhere to work without interruption.

A few times along the drive Clark moved as if to speak but the words never came to him. He fidgeted with nearly everything within reaching distance, including his own clothing and the various dials that controlled different aspects of the car. When they finally pulled into the drive that Layton shared with the three other families he sat perfectly still for a moment.

"We will get him back, won't we, Hershel," Clark whispered after Flora exited the vehicle. "Please tell me we will."

"Of course we will, Clark. I give you my word."

Clark stared straight ahead and whispered something that Layton had to strain to hear. "I said I'm still trying to figure out if I blame you or not."

He left the vehicle as quickly as possible, leaving the Professor to his own thoughts inside. Layton did not know what to say that would be of any comfort at all to his old friend; truthfully he had no clue what to expect out of the next few days. Luke was a strong, independent, and often stubborn young man who often insisted that he could care for himself. But responsibility and fighting for one's own life were two vastly different concepts. Over the entire course of their friendship and apprenticeship, how much did Luke learn in terms of survival? How much did he know about dealing with psychotic individuals? All of his experience with such people always included the safety net of the Professor. How would he cope without it?

Eventually, roughly five minutes later, the Professor sighed and gingerly maneuvered himself out of the vehicle. The medicine he took before leaving for the bridge dulled the pain in his stomach to reasonable and much more tolerable levels, though the pressure still remained. He wanted to fall into bed and allow sleep to take him under and hold him captive for however long it pleased. Inside the flat, for Flora's sake if anything, he tried to go about his typical routine. The post yielded nothing but unimportant letters and notices, and there were no notices from his landlord saying anyone called for him. Flora waited for Layton to turn down the lights before heading towards her own room. Each night she did a bit of reading before turning in, though tonight she simply lay in bed. After he was sure Flora was completely dressed in her nightclothes and in bed, he went in to speak to her.

"You must try and sleep tonight, my dear," he soothed, pulling the sheets up around her shoulders. "Tomorrow we will have much of this settled."

"I hope so, Professor. I would hate it should anything happen to him," she whispered.

"I know you would, and I promise I will do everything in my power to see that does not happen."

Flora considered his promise for a moment before nodding and closing her eyes. Layton whispered his good nights and closed her door. On any other typical night, he would knock on Luke's door and tell him to get in bed a number of times. Their nightly routine was certainly not as sentimental as Flora's. Instead Clark sat on Luke's unkempt bed, his head lowered, fingers woven through his wild hair. Layton rapped on the door to grab his attention.

"You know the entire time he's been with you I've never seen his room," mused Clark. "Every time I dropped by for a visit he never asked me to see it. Can you believe it, Hershel? Six years and I still know very little about his life."

Layton allowed Clark to speak uninterrupted. Hours of negative emotions bottled up inside him left him cynical and dry. "You know I told Brenda that I was coming to London to bring him back with you. How do you think she will react when neither of us show tomorrow? It's unfair, Hershel; he's such a sweet and kindhearted boy. Why should any of this happen to us? He never wanted to hurt anyone in his life, ever! And yet fortune targets him for her fun and games." Clark worked himself into a frenzy, his face red and fat tears streaming down the sides of his face. He fumbled with one of Luke's prized possessions, his over stuffed and near decrepit teddy bear. As somewhat of a psychological social experiment, Layton once commented on how soon Luke would be grown. Luke immediately agreed, as Layton predicted and he immediately suggested the young man be rid of all his old toys. Much to Layton's amusement, Luke defended his toys without second thought, stating that he felt he should keep them, for Flora's sake of all people. Eventually he did agree to send some of his toys home, and kept only his favorites.

Eventually Clark quieted, hugging the bear to his chest and everything it represented. Though their relationship was not a particularly close one, Luke meant the world to Clark and Brenda; his little boy was the only reason Clark chose politics instead of a more adventurous lifestyle. Had he known that Luke would one day fall in love with such a life, Clark might have chosen differently. Though his letters to Layton often indicated that he dread returning home ("Everything is _beyond _boring there, Professor," one letter read), surely Luke knew that his parents only wanted the best for him. He looked up at Layton, pleading with his eyes. "He talks about us, does he not? He knows that we love him, right?"

Layton leaned against the frame of Luke's door. "Of course he does, Clark. You are his father; nothing on this Earth can change that."

"But he blames us. He hated us for sending him away."

"You did what you believed was in his best interest. How do you suppose you were to provide for your family if you did not accept the position of mayor?"

Clark chuckled at him, sarcasm dripped from every sound he made. "Yes, I supposed giving my son away was the best possible course of action in that regard. What could be worse; he hates me because I give him up or he hates me for smothering him. Yes, Hershel, that's quite the puzzle."

"Clark, you're being unreasonable—"

"No, Hershel. Luke would easily give up everything to stay here permanently and you know it. Nothing I could ever do would ever satisfy him. You've poisoned him against us!"

Layton threw his hands in the air, defending himself as non-confrontationally as possible. "That makes absolutely no sense, Clark. Listen to yourself; you're upset and you're scared. Remember when I lost Claire, how obstinate and unreachable I was? Your son loves you both very much. Right not he simply doesn't understand the sacrifices you've made for him, and most likely he will not for some time. But he loves you just the same, my friend."

Clark brought his voice back down to that of a whisper. "Whenever he is at home, all he does is talk about you. 'The Professor said this,' 'the Professor said that.' You mean the entire world to him. And he never writes home, he always writes to you first."

"Answer yourself honestly, Clark; how often do you write back to him?" Clark scratched at the unkempt beard on his chin.

"As much as possible."

"Look in his desk," Layton instructed. "Once he receives a letter from you he sends it back to me to hang on to for him. There's only three in there, Clark."

"I try the best I can—"

"And what of Brenda? Do you even inform her that Luke sent you a letter? Why does she not write to him?"

Clark jumped up quickly and stormed over to Layton, staring him down, their noses inches from each other. Layton stood a good two or three inches shorter than Clark but did not feel the need to really stand up against him. Wherever this streak of anger came from, whenever it would end, Layton would never hold it against Clark. His short but equally strong temper often became the better of him, and tonight would prove no exception.

In their time together at University, Clark loved nothing more than to argue with professors. If he received a failing grade, especially for something as flexible as a term paper, Clark would most likely debate and reason with his professor to receive a higher mark. Even as far back as University, Layton knew Clark would choose a political career. However, only three years after graduating, Clark started a family, something neither of them thought would happen in either of their lifetimes.

Layton remembered when he received the message of Luke's birth, Clark could barely contain himself. When Layton could finally make the trip to see the baby boy, about four weeks later, Clark never looked happier in all his life that Layton could remember. He bustled about baby Luke's room like a mother hen, checking on the baby each time he heard a sound. When Layton held him for the first time, Clark passed the little boy to him as if he were a trophy, nothing but pride radiating from his face. Even when tiny Luke started to cry ten seconds later, Clark only smiled wider.

But the older Luke grew, the more Clark spent navigating the world of politics, forcing him to spend more and more time at his office or at some political rally. Because of this, Luke felt closer to Brenda than nearly anyone in the world; that is, until he met "Professor Top Hat" and started to learn from him. Luke would never remember it but for a while the little boy was Layton's escape; roughly two years into Luke's life Layton lost Claire, the only person in the world he ever gave his love to. But Luke was a distraction, and to watch such a tiny, little person grow day by day was wonderfully time consuming. However, when Layton finally started researching the incident that ended her life, the quest took over every aspect of his life. Dangerously close to losing his position at the University, Layton gave everything in his power to finding the reason for her death.

Looking into such a disaster came at a price he never thought he would pay. Someone knew of his research, of his findings, and nearly ended his own life over the notebook full of newspaper articles and clippings. He lay unconscious for six months of his life, a terrifying amount, and in that time he lost contact with Clark and his family. Because Layton spent the next few years recovering excruciatingly slowly, he did not see Clark and his family for another six years.

By the time he saw Luke again, the little boy forgot much of his dealings with the Professor. They quickly renewed their friendship, however; Luke loved to hear stories of ancient civilizations and fierce battles fought on huge fields all over the world. Above all, he loved to solve puzzles. Though he very seldom actually solved them, and the Professor fed him hints left and right, the little boy loved the challenge. Their friendship required very little, and the move from the Triton's to Layton's home in London went much smoother than anyone could anticipate.

At the very moment, however, the father of his little friend stood inches from Layton as if ready to tackle him at any moment. The look on Clark's face suggested pure, unadulterated rage seething within him like that of an active and threatening volcano. Given the suggestion, Clark would easily pummel Layton's face without a second thought.

After a tense moment in which neither man spoke, Clark looked to the ground and sighed, trudging back to Luke's bed and dropping himself onto it with a groan.

"I apologize, Hershel," Clark stated flatly. Whether or not he truly meant it Layton could not fathom. "Honestly I have no idea as to where my head has gone."

"I understand, old friend. Try to get some sleep and rest your eyes. Luke would not want you to look like some deranged person when he sees you again."

Layton waited for Clark to grin at him before closing the door and heading down the hall to his own bed chamber. As he turned out the rest of the lights and closed the five shades in his room, he was reminded of a puzzle Luke told him once just to see if the Professor could solve a somewhat open-ended riddle. That day they were shopping to fix up Flora's room; all her room contained at that moment was a bed frame.

"Professor," Luke inquired, looking up from his notebook full of scribbles. "Do you think you could solve this one?"

Layton finished paying for some fabric that Flora swore she could sew into curtains (which, in hindsight, she never actually accomplished) and looked down at him. "Solve what, my boy?"

"A puzzle I made. A man is turning in for the evening and when he turns out all the lights in his flat, he can still go to bed before his room becomes dark. How is that possible?"

Luke's puzzle was not necessarily difficult, but for such a young man to create such a puzzle was quite an achievement. If anything, the puzzle had no missing conditions and it was not impossible to solve.

As they exited the shop, Layton decided to allow Luke to win this one. He tilted his head left and right, then rubbed the dirt off his chin. "Hmm," he pondered aloud. "Did he forget to turn off a lamp in another room, perhaps?"

Luke looked back at Flora and waited for her to make a guess but she shrugged her shoulders. "Do you give up?" Layton nodded his head. "It was only six in the evening, so the sky was not fully dark yet."

Layton laughed openly and mocked himself, pulling his top hat over his eyes in shame. "Ah yes, I completely ignored all the possible sources of light. Wonderful work, my boy." With that, they continued on their way.

At the thought of the memory, Layton smiled to himself. Luke was becoming an extremely bright and intelligent young man, and he felt proud that part of it was Layton's doing (Brenda often "blamed" Layton for turning Luke into a logician; now the little boy was able to reason with her when he did not want to do something). Above all, Luke also retained his compassion and zest for life, as well as his love for animals. In his time spent with the Professor, Luke had a number of small pets that he tended to, despite Flora's objections. Neighbors often turned to Luke to care for their own pets when they were away, and the little boy made a sizable income over the summer because of the odd jobs.

Once Layton turned down the lamps and closed the shades, he removed his hat and placed it gently on its stand. He quickly undressed and put on his nightclothes before turning off the final lamp and settling into bed. His layers of sheets, ones Claire picked out for him over ten years ago. Even before he intended to take her hand in marriage, she often spoke of their future together. On more than one afternoon they sat under a tree or walked throughout the park and giggled at the bizarre and funny names for their "future children." They told each other wild plans of gallivanting around the world, going on digs in the Orient or trekking the unknown Arctic. None of these ideas would ever come to fruition, and both knew so, but as long as Layton was with Claire, both of them were happy. Everything Layton envisioned about his future contained her, would only work if she were present. Claire was his world and his life, and everything he did was only for her.

Five minutes later he rolled over once again, flipping the switch back on and scrambling for his coat. He tore through every pocket on the inside, hunting for the object he nearly forgot. Finally, after much longer than Layton preferred, he found the letter slipped in his pocket with such agility, he had no knowledge of its existence until just a few hours ago. Unfolding it and nearly ripping it in half, he stared at its contents for a few moments.

"What on earth," he wondered aloud. "What do you mean by this, _Clive?_"


	7. Puzzle 006

Puzzle 006

Clark rapped on Layton's door early in the morning, hoping that the Professor rose early for once. When Layton did not answer, Clark opened the door slowly. Instead of seeing the Professor in bed, however, he sat slumped over his desk. For a moment Clark stood stock still, but after a few seconds of listening, he could hear Layton's somewhat wheezy breathing.

The Professor's finger twitched occasionally, indicating his sleep state. The top hat that usually donned his head rested on a hat stand next to the bed, a near pathetic sight if Clark did not know what the hat meant to Layton. Only a few times since he received the top hat has Clark ever seen Layton without it. This morning, however, his short hair poked out at various angles from his head as if he ran his fingers through his hair once too often. Papers full of random scribbles covered nearly every square inch of Layton's desk, similar to his desk when both were in University. Ironically, Clark's desk always remained nearly spotless, while Layton's appeared purely chaotic. He managed to keep their room _clean_ (in the sense that dirt and grime did not build up) but the Professor was far from _neat._ The rest of the Professor's book-strewn and untidy room was testament to this.

The morning sun barely hinted at its existence outside London, changing the sky to a dull gray color tinged with purple and blue. Much of the working class would start to wake itself up at this point, although most days Layton would sleep far past sun up. When Luke still lived with Layton, he had to force himself every morning to wake himself up as well as Luke and Flora for grammar school. Every morning he had an internal debate as to whether or not he actually wanted to arise, only to throw the sheets back and drag himself out of bed. As soon as the pair left for school, Layton headed straight back to his bedroom for another couple hours sleep before he needed to leave for his own scholarly duties.

Clark typically arose at the break of dawn in the morning, and went to bed fairly late. If anything major were to happen politically, Clark wanted to be the first to know of it. Typically the Triton's ate breakfast separately, and Brenda often woke hours after Clark left for the day. When Luke was still a little boy, she typically followed his schedule (which, admittedly, was hectic for the first years of his life). Clark had very little time to spend with his son during the little boy's waking moments.

He woke Layton up slowly, papers of various shapes and sizes falling to the floor as the Professor sat up. Layton rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, blinking away his confusion. Clark made his way to the door once again, silent and brooding. Layton watched him leave once again, peering down the hall to check Flora's door as well. It remained exactly as he left it last night, barely cracked. He pulled on his robe quickly and plucked the hat from its stand.

Down the hall, Clark shuffled to the breakfast table, dropping himself into a seat and resting his head in his arms. Though he slept the past night, he managed to only catch an hour or two at a time before sitting up in bed with a start. For a while he poked about the room, looking at the odds and ends Luke collected throughout the years that he never shared with his father. Deep in his belly Clark still felt a twinge of animosity towards Layton and his relationship with Luke, but this early in the morning, he could barely feel anything. Somewhere in the ever expanding city of London was his little boy, and Clark could do next to nothing about it.

Layton limped down the hall using the wall for support. The blow to his stomach yesterday widened the bruise and made movement extremely difficult. Sleeping in such an unusual position for as short amount of time as he did added to the agony that assaulted is abdomen. For a moment he panicked as he hunted for the medication that kept the pain at bay, and he dropped a pill in the kitchen sink trying to ingest one with shaking hands. Simply taking something to delay the pain, even for a little while, put his mind at ease.

The two regarded each other for roughly ten minutes before either spoke. Clark stared at Layton with empty eyes, devoid of emotion and amicable feelings for the Professor. Layton allowed Clark to take his time in speaking, neither encouraging nor disapproving, listening intently whenever Clark moved to say anything at all. Once the coffee finished brewing, and Layton poured two cups for the both of them, did either say anything.

"You fell asleep at your desk again," Clark observed to make small talk. Layton could not tell if there was any concern in his voice or not. "What were you working on?"

"The letter Clive had slipped into my pocket. It's simply a map of London with various times written in different locations. Other than that the map is completely unaltered," Layton pondered aloud, his chin resting on his hand. Clark wrapped his long fingers around the hot coffee cup and brought it to his lips. He immediately withdrew the cup when it scalded his lip.

"What of the paper?"

Layton looked across the table at him. "What of it?"

"What sort of paper was it?"

"Just regular paper," he mused. "It almost feels as if it were ripped from a textbook. The times were written in pen, so nothing particularly interesting about that."

Clark's head bobbed behind the coffee cup. Outside the window behind him, working men and women shuffled along to their respective work locations, none too excited about doing so. Each of them looked forward to a long, lonely and back-breaking day. On more than one occasion, Layton felt a sense of pity watching the morning ritual; both Layton and Clark were fortunate enough to obtain an education and could now live comfortably. However neither particularly minded physical labor and Layton typically went out of his way to help someone work on a project of some sort as all gentlemen should.

Down the hallway, Flora's alarm clock sounded. Weekends and weekdays differed in their routine; on school days Layton hauled himself out of bed to make them a quick breakfast and wake them up himself. On Saturday and Sunday, however, he expected them up by at least ten in the morning, even if Layton himself were not up. Most days Flora woke herself up much earlier than Luke and today would be no exception.

As would any true gentleman, Clark and Layton stood when Flora entered the room. Yawning, she shuffled to Layton's side and leaned into his shoulder in a half-hearted hug. Layton gently pulled her closer and squeezed her upper arm, anything beyond such a thing he would deem inappropriate.

"Good morning, dear one," Layton mumbled into the top of her head. She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "Now, now, my dear, you know a lady never appears improperly dressed with company present." Flora blushed and scrambled back into her room, her face blazing hot from embarrassment. Any other day she would easily stroll about the flat in her bedclothes and robe, even with the Professor and Luke in the room, but with another person present she felt ashamed for forgetting such a thing. Only when she returned completely dressed and brushing out her hair did Clark and Layton resume their seats.

"Now," continued Layton. "What do we know? We know that Clive has Luke—"Both Flora and Clark erupted in a chorus of "Clives" that ranged from outrage and fear to utter confusion. Layton held his hands up. "Flora knows who Clive is; Clark, do you remember nearly a year ago that business that we had with 'future London'?"

"How could anyone forget such a thing? A full-scale replica of London, underground of all things!"

Layton nodded. "Clive was the man who orchestrated its construction. He posed as a 'future Luke' to gain both of our trusts."

"He was imprisoned though," observed Clark.

"Indeed, he was. How he escaped though, I have no clue, if he even escaped at all. With his wealth and influence it would not surprise me if Scotland Yard has some easily corruptible jailers."

Clark jumped from his chair and paced the back of the room, trying to curb the flash of anxiety that bubbled in his chest. He wanted some course of action, anything that seemed like progress to take place. The longer he went without seeing his son, without hugging him close and knowing that the young man still lived, the more Clark's fear gradually consumed him. The more his fear ate away at his sanity, the more he lost his inability to think clearly. Right now such a thing could prove deadly.

"We must figure out the map, Hershel," Clark finally growled, a minute's silence filling the room. Flora placed her hairbrush in her lap and slowly thumbed the bristles, avoiding Clark's bubbling rage. Experience taught her to simply stay quiet in situations such as this, and such wisdom served her well when living at St. Mystere. "You said there were times written on it; what times were they?"

Layton patted his chest and found nothing but the lapel to his bedclothes and robe (no one ever explained to him why it was improper for a woman to appear in her bedclothes in front of a man, and not vice versa; he figured it was always due to the fact that men typically wore trousers to sleep, women did not). As quickly as his abdomen would allow, he stood and went back to his room, plucking the map from its spot on the desk and carrying its folded contents back into the kitchen.

The numbers written on the map looked as if a young child scribbled them. None of them had any sort of consistency either; though many of the numbers were the same, their appearance differed drastically. Layton could not fathom if the writer, most likely Clive, wanted to disguise his handwriting or if someone altogether and entirely different did the writing. Occasionally a letter appeared fluid, and then at other times jolts and jars marred the numbers as well. Underneath the letters, Layton could determine a sense of fear.

The times themselves were scattered throughout London, ranging from well into the evening to early in the morning. There was simply no consistency; above the Tower of London the perpetrator wrote "8AM" and beneath the Globe Theatre read "11:30PM." The only bits of information worth noting were the lack of numbers written during the mid to late afternoon and the fact that no hour repeated twice. But what could the times mean? Did Layton and his party need to be at that location at that specific time? Was it the time in which he had to solve a particular puzzle? Did he need to solve the puzzle by that particular time period? There were too many variables, too many possibilities to consider.

Beforehand, Layton solved many puzzles in which a condition needed to be satisfied before determining the proper answer. Layton recalled a puzzle from many years ago told to him by his mentor, Doctor Andrew Schrader, which involved conditions. A mere six lines, it read: "More powerful than God, more evil than the Devil, the rich need it, but the poor have it. You die if you eat it, what am I?" So early in his time with Doctor Schrader, Layton spent days trying to reason the puzzle despite the fact that it glared at him from every possible angle. The puzzle twisted and warped his brain for hours on end, and more than once Layton actually forgot to eat anything until someone else reminded him to do so. Anything he tried would not fit the conditions equally; the only thing he could think of involving eating something and dying involved poison, which was not greater than the greatest of evils. Finally, after a number of people insisted that he give up on the puzzle. Layton returned to Doctor Schrader with his head held low.

"Well, my dear boy," Doctor Schrader laughed. "Do you have an answer to that nefarious riddle that I gave you the other day?"

Layton held his hands in the air in pure defeat. "Nothing, I have absolutely nothing. Nothing makes sense!"

Doctor Schrader raised his eyebrow at Layton, his short legs dangling from the chair in which he sat. "Why do you look so despondent, my boy? You have the answer." Layton looked up at Doctor Schrader from underneath the brim of his hat, infinitely confused. "_Nothing _is the answer."

"Doctor Schrader, would you care to explain?"

"Try answering every line of the riddle with the word 'nothing' and tell me if it fits."

Layton tilted his head as he worked through the puzzle, the scratched his chin as the final piece of the riddle clicked into place. "It makes perfect sense, Doctor! _Nothing _is more powerful than God, _nothing _is more evil than the Devil, the rich need _nothing, _the poor have _nothing_, and if I eat _nothing _I will most surely die. Doctor Schrader, that's brilliant!"

Such a happy memory brought one of the more rare smiles to Layton's face. Doctor Schrader had his moments of pure genius, and not five minutes later would forget that he placed his glasses atop his own head. He reminded Layton of his own grandfather, a figure in his life he knew very little about. Above that, Doctor Andrew Schrader was simply a wonderful person, considerate and kind to a fault.

Back in the real world, that is to say the present, Clark waved his hand in front of Layton's line of sight to garner his attention. "Where did you go to, my friend?"

Layton turned his smile in Clark's direction. "Just thinking of a happier time, Clark. Now, we have very few options for our next step. The times really do not follow a consistent pattern, but the first assumptions I can draw is that the times and locations coincide to the point in which we need to be. Luckily the times are spaced out enough that I do not believe we need to separate. Clark, do you have any other opinions to possibly add?"

"I believe it would be wise to start at locations in which the distance is short and the times are fairly close together," Clark pondered aloud. "This way we can reach more locations in a single go. What concerns me more than most is the lack of dates. These times could mean any day at all."

The thought did not come directly to Layton's mind although it made sense. Layton simply assumed that the times were concentrated on the immediate twenty-four to forty-eight hours. But what would greet them at these locations? What sort of trials would they face? The danger could prove to be enormous. Layton looked at Clark, and then peered at Flora. Only through their history together could Clark understand the meaning behind such a look. He nodded and turned away from the scene, unwilling to be involved.

"Flora, my dear, there is a matter we must discuss," the Professor soothed, waiting until Flora returned the brush to her lap. He took her hands in his own and prepared to listen to the diatribe he was sure would follow. "I'm sorry, my dear, but I am afraid that we cannot ask you along on this adventure."

From here Layton could track her emotions based on her facial expressions, a sequence he saw more than once in the past. Truth be told, nearly every adventure the Professor and Luke encountered they asked Flora to remain in a safe location more than once. As a testament to her stubborn personality, she never obeyed either of them and often found herself in dire situations. This time however, with danger that included lethal firearms, neither Layton nor Clark had the patience for any sort of delay. As much as Layton loved Flora, he could not risk her safety.

"But Professor," she whined, trailing off at the end. The pure resolve and determination in Layton's face told her that nothing she would say would change his mind, but she still had to try. "But Professor, I feel so useless here, and—"

"And what, my dear?"

Flora blushed and leaned in to whisper into his ear. "And I'm afraid to be here on my own. Sometimes I become frightened by the smallest sounds, and it's very unladylike but I just prefer to stay with someone for now."

Speechless, Layton stared at her for a moment, his mouth agape. With so many thoughts buzzing about his brain like bees, he failed to also account for her safety. Though the school had its own minimal security that patrolled the campus, they very seldom made reliable rounds at night; since much of the map puzzle indicated late in the evening and early in the morning, Layton could not depend on the school, and even so there would be no one with her. He turned to Clark for some sort of assistance in the matter. Clark stood up quickly with an idea, though an extremely bittersweet one.

"Flora, sweetheart," he started. "Would you like to meet my wife?"

The subsequent phone call nearly broke Layton's heart in half. Clark desperately tried to keep his composure over the phone but roughly five minutes in Clark's knees buckled and he sank to the floor. The rest of the conversation he finished sitting on the floor, his back to the wall. Layton listened from the other room, pacing as quietly as possible. Layton peered into the room when he heard Clark _thump_ against the wall and sink down it, but he did not want to intrude on the Tritons' conversation.

Layton could only imagine how such a conversation took place, and even just imagining something of this magnitude tore through his very nerve fibers, leaving only sadness in its wake. The only experience he had with such loss was with Claire nearly eleven years ago. The event left him terribly heartbroken, especially with the knowledge that her fate was permanent. In this situation though, Clive promised that Luke would remain alive until _something_, though he failed to mention what specifically. Regardless, through all of this horror and pain and destruction, there was _hope._ At this very moment Clark would swear that everything was lost and that his son was surely lost as well, but Layton had faith in the little boy. Or, as Luke constantly pointed out, he was quickly becoming a young man.

The Professor heard the phone slam down on the cradle, though he did not go into the room. Once he heard Clark clear his throat, Layton inched the door open. Clark stood in front of the telephone, staring at his reflection in the mirror. When he noticed Layton standing in the door way he looked downward to hide his red, swollen face. "Hershel, I apologize."

"For what, my friend?"

"Everything, old boy. My behavior, my lack of involvement…everything." Clark searched through his pockets for his wallet and pulled out a photograph of his son. "When I think of him, I still think of him as a little boy. It all seems unreal, Hershel. Ten years felt like ten minutes, and now he's in secondary school. Where did my little boy go, Professor? Answer that riddle for me if you can."

"He will always be your son, Clark. No matter what age or where he is in life, that fact never changes. He loves you and he knows that you love him. That alone will keep him alive, and we are going to bring him back unharmed."

Clark slammed his fist on the side table and then paced to keep his fist in check, to stop himself from blacking out and seriously maiming the Professor. "Stop saying that! Stop saying that, Hershel, please! How do you know we will find him? How do you know that madman has not killed him already?"

"Because I know Luke and he would do anything he possibly could to stay alive. You know as well as I do that he is a very headstrong young man who does not give into pressure easily," pleaded Layton. "Think about it, Clark; you gave him your tenacity and your persistence. If he is anything at all like you he will pull through this."

The anger building in Clark seethed and bubbled in his stomach, leaving an awful taste burning through his throat and into his mouth. "This is all your doing, Layton. None of this would have happened if it were not for you. If I never sent him away he would just be a normal boy at home and would go to school in Mist Haley. Instead he is just a smaller version of yourself, and look where it led him."

By the time Clark finished his diatribe Layton could barely hear the man. His words cut the Professor down to his soul and made him feel as though all the time he spent with Luke meant nothing to his old friend. Layton taught Luke as much as his small and youthful brain would absorb and dedicated the past six years of his life to the boy's gentlemanly instruction. Layton did not ever expect Clark to lavishly thank him in any way, but to suggest that absolutely none of it mattered anguished him deeply.

"I'm offended that you would even think such a thing, my friend," Layton stated, trying to keep his composure. A gentleman solved any dispute with dignity, especially if he were in the wrong, and did whatever necessary to resolve the problem. At the moment though he felt as if Clark were not in the condition for such a thing; Layton would refuse to raise his voice, angering Clark even more. At University Clark loved nothing more than to engage in a shouting match with anyone who would agree to do so and many times he grew angry with Layton when he did not challenge someone. Despite their extremely opposing personalities, they were easily the best of friends. However, right now it appeared as if Clark wanted to strangle him.

They stared at each other for an undeterminable amount of minutes, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally, as a sign of respect, Layton removed his hat and held it to his side, his head held high and looking Clark in his eyes. "Clark," he began gently. "You are a dear friend of mine, but currently I do not believe we can, or even should, resolve this matter at the present time. Right now our focus is on your son and returning him home safely; afterwards we can discuss and deal with whatever is between us. Would you not agree, sir?"

Layton shocked himself in his coldness, though his face radiated heat. He felt as though a glass wall resided between the two that neither had the means to shatter at the moment. The Professor also noticed that until this moment, going on nearly twenty years, he never referred to Clark as 'sir.' Such a thing drove the wedge even further and distanced them even more.

Inside, Clark wanted to destroy anything in his sight; murder would be an easy feat if given the proper incentive. He felt every possible emotion at once and it simply overwhelmed him. Deep, deep, despair, anger, torment, hatred, all roped together by his love for his little boy, but he simply did not know where those emotions belonged at the moment or how to express them. The reality of the situation started to hint at its magnanimity, and the black void that started to envelop his chest slowly spread venom through his veins. Clark knew friends and even a brother who lost a child (his stillborn nephew), and he could see the pure and raw torment each of them faced. However, as sad as each of those events were, Clark could simply not imagine how the parents truly _felt_. Now though, with a similar experience, Clark could feel all of it, every heartbreaking, miserable moment. Brenda did not fare any better than himself, and when her own train arrived, Clark did not know how he would handle the situation. His wife and his child meant everything to him, there simply was no way to describe the torture he felt.

Meanwhile, Layton prepared himself for the day and donned his customary traveling clothes. The day would prove long and arduous, and they still had hours to go until they would seek out the first location on the map. Unfortunately the map was an extremely aerial view and therefore not specific enough to give precise locations, merely streets. Finding the exact spot would prove arduous and difficult. However, with Flora accounted for mobility would become much easier. At some point, Layton would have to call Chelmey and inform him of their plans.

He dressed quickly and stood outside the flat waiting for Clark, his medication tucked safely away in his pocket. In other pockets he kept his notebook, his watch, keys, and anything else he felt might become necessary later in the investigation. Though he very seldom ate in public outside a restaurant or café, he munched on quickly made toast to give himself some added energy. A number of neighbors and acquaintances stopped to wish him a good morning, and he returned their cordiality with mixed sincerity. A gentleman always remained polite, as he often told Luke.

Layton turned around and surveyed his beloved street, stepping much farther out of the way than necessary as a young boy barreled down the street. For so late in the morning, the street appeared much busier than expected, and soon Layton found himself weaving in and out of people.

But just as he turned to walk back into his flat, Clive stepped from an alleyway and beckoned to follow.


	8. Puzzle 007

Puzzle 007

Layton followed Clive through the winding side-streets of London, following Clive as quickly as possible. Each time he grew too close though, Clive quickened his pace to put distance between the two of them. Layton bobbed in and out of the walking traffic jam heading in the opposing direction, trying his best to keep Clive's unkempt and dirty hair in view.

His breathing labored under the stress of twisting and dodging. With his hand clamped firmly on his top hat lest he should lose it in the crowd, Layton slammed into more than one person in his pursuit. He simply _must _catch up with Clive; whatever Clive wanted, whatever the vile young man needed, must be fulfilled for the sake of Luke. This was the start of Clive's ultimate puzzle, whatever the puzzle contained.

Clive made a sharp right, momentarily disappearing from Layton's view. The Professor nearly panicked then, darting out of the crowd as quickly as possible without tripping or tumbling over someone. As he rounded the corner, he stopped in his tracks. He simply did not see Clive anywhere, as if the younger man vanished. Taller than most men his age, Clive would easily be recognizable amongst nearly any crowd.

"Good morning, Professor," a voice called from his right. From the base of his spine Layton could feel every nerve ending in his back flare up from distain as if suddenly jabbed with thousands of tiny needles. The pinpricks turned to heat that pulsated and flowed throughout the rest of his body in a sudden deluge of emotion. He turned his head slowly to face the origin of the shrill and boyish voice.

"Clive," Layton stated to help his own brain process the image. The young man sat at a small café table, his legs idly crossed and hands laced across his knee. Layton expected his clothing to at least appear dirty and mangled, indicative of his time spent in prison, but the image before him looked absolutely pristine.

"It is wonderful to see you again, Professor," said the younger man. "Please, I invite you to have a seat. Enjoy an early morning tea with me."

As if in a trance, Layton inched his way to the opposing chair and lowered himself into it. Entirely on edge, his muscles near twitching from the anticipation of an unknown event, he stared into Clive's eyes. Though he had little contact with psychotic individuals, Layton could easily understand the madness in the younger man's eyes: a terrifying combination of bloodlust and play, frivolity only a young child could experience mixed with evil. Clive did not seem to notice Layton's intense scrutiny, that or he was simply not phased by it.

"How are you this morning, Layton? I trust you are well despite the events of the past week." Mocking sincerity leaked from Clive's words as if they were made of acid.

Layton forced himself out of reverie and needed to repeat himself when he whispered. "I know I have looked upon better days, Clive."

"Well, that is understandable, my friend. I am sure you and Luke's father have had a rough go since the train accident."

The cordiality and forced politeness scratched at Layton like scraping paint. Clive's eyes danced and looked upon his prey like a wildfire encircling a startled animal, hungry and eager to devour everything within its circles. At the same time, the young man enjoyed simply the _sport _of this encounter. Knowing that he held the upper hand thrilled him to the core.

Clive allowed his foot to bounce up and down to pass the time. Layton's brain could not connect to this incident, refused to, and he watched it unfold from a distance somewhere above his own head. Everything felt entirely too surreal and disjointed; surely the young man sitting in front of him was only an illusion. As an indication of his lack of processing, the only thought that stood clear in his mind regarding Clive concerned his idly bouncing foot. _A gentleman sits still at the table_, his brain chastised. _Relaxed and still_.

After some minutes, the owner of the tea shop strolled over to ask for their order. Unable to speak, Clive muttered something about a single pot they would share. Subconsciously the sentence made perfect sense to Layton and he recognized the words, but in his current state the words jumbled through his head like gibberish. When the owner departed, Clive set his foot on the ground and leaned in.

"Tell me, my good sir," he whispered. "Do you know what today is?"

Today…yes, there was something significant about this day in particular that tingled on the edge of Layton's thoughts but refused to pull entirely to the surface of his thinking. Dazed, Layton shook his head.

"Why, today is Luke's birthday, Professor. Surely you of all people should know such a thing. Come, sir, let's have a spot of his favorite tea in his honor."

Suddenly it all blasted to the forefront of his brain as if shot from a canon. The immediate realization jarred him so intensely he jolted in his seat from surprise. "Luke! What have you done with him?"

Clive held his hands up, innocent as can be. "Calm yourself, Professor. You have my word that young Luke is entirely safe at this moment. Truth be told he may not be the happiest boy on the face of the earth but he is safe. I gave you my word last night and I still uphold it.

"Besides, Professor, a gentleman always keeps his word, does he not?"

Layton knew Clive enjoyed every second of these moments, every sickening, sinister second. A year ago Clive spouted the same drivel back at him, though under completely false pretense. Layton would never know how much preparation and constant study Clive needed to obsess over, completely convincing everyone he was the future version of Luke.

Occasionally Clive's eyes darted past Layton as if searching for someone or something not entirely present. An extremely unnerving sight, Layton wanted to turn somewhat to view whatever it could be as well, but intuition told him to peer forward and train his eyes on Clive. The famous Layton intuition, as the true Luke termed it.

"At any rate, Hershel, there is a matter we need to discuss." Layton blinked and nodded, recognizing his own name though it seemed so unfamiliar to him coming from Clive. "The map I rather rudely forced upon you is of utmost importance. If you were to lose it, there simply would be no recovery and I am afraid that I could not make another one. No, I have my own copy but you must also retain yours."

"What do you want, Clive?"

"I did not say that I wanted anything, Professor." Clive stopped suddenly and looked at the table. "My word, sir, you are yet to even glance at your tea."

Layton's eyes drifted to the steaming cup in front of him, its contents sitting peacefully. On such a cool day as this, the liquid would work wonders for most souls in London, warming the body and the mind. Still in his disconnected phase and without thinking of any sort of consequence, he grabbed the cup with stiff hands and sipped slowly. Clive continued his mad rant.

"Now, that's much better. I must say I felt quite alone drinking without you. Back to the task at hand: truly, Professor, there _is _something I would like, and the contents of that map should reveal it. If you can solve the puzzle of the map and give me what I want, the sooner Luke will be returned to you."

The gears in Layton's mind started to hum along at an ever quickening pace. Faster and faster, he absorbed new information and started to process at lightning speed once again. Similar to the early morning fog of London, the fog on his mind started to lift.

"Why the need for the games, Clive? Why can you not simply return Luke and end this? The torment Clark feels is nearly overwhelming, I can see it in his eyes," Layton fumed, the anger building in his chest as he spoke. Clive cut him off.

"And do you not think Luke feels the same way? Oh yes, Professor; I can see the same fear in Luke's eyes as you do in his father's. And I can recognize that fear. Young Luke and I both faced the loss of parents, that feeling that mother and father were no longer here to protect you. Do not lecture me on fear and loss, Professor."

"But what is the reason behind all of this?"

"You will learn in due time, sir," the young man sneered, his tone of voice changing as if changing the subject entirely. "But for now concentrate on the puzzles at hand. At each location there will be a puzzle for you to decipher."

"What of the times?"

Clark furrowed his eyebrows. "The Times, as in the London Times? Oh yes, the times, excuse me. That is something that I cannot tell you, Professor; it is something you must discover on your own."

"How long do we have?"

"As I said, if you can solve it quickly then Luke will go home quickly. There are no specific dates, you may solve them at your will, although I recommend that you complete them in order."

Layton's eyes narrowed. "That makes no sense, Clive, the times are sporadic. Where would I even begin?" An intense moment of pure realization slammed into him as Layton suddenly understood the gravity of his question. Not only did Layton realize that he sat taking tea with the same psychotic madman who captured his young friend, but with such a statement he agreed to play the game.

"It makes perfect sense, Professor. I lead you to the first spot, and now you are indebted to see to its completion. Once you solve the puzzle, you will earn the privilege of the _next _location. As I said, my good sir, the faster you complete the puzzles the faster you will arrive at the overall answer." Clive stood suddenly and straightened the lapels of his coat, pulling on the underside of his tie to tighten it. "Until then, Layton, I wish you all the best. Give my regards to Clark when you see him again, will you."

Layton jumped up to stop him but found himself nearly tripping over the café table in his clumsiness. His own tea cup rattled and protested against the black metal grating, its contents splashing about and dotting the ground below. To avoid a scene, he quickly tried to level the table as well as its inhabitants, sparing the tea pot from sliding off the table and exploding on the concrete beneath his feet. With everything settled, he looked up to search for Clive. The young man was nowhere to be seen.

He sank slowly back into the chair, pulling the brim of his hat down to his eyes to block out the rest of the world and think in solitude. Somewhere in this location lay a puzzle he needed to solve, to decipher, to decode, and every other synonym in between. At this moment, he felt as though it were a daunting task; the map displayed dozens of numbers, and each number essentially meant yet another puzzle. And how much time did they truly have? Clive's answer did not entirely feel definitive and something as broad as 'solve at will' said nothing of young Luke's health. Beyond that, Clive only mentioned Luke's safety. What of the other aspects of function? Did Clive give him proper food or proper clothing? Obviously from last night watching Luke shiver in the cold, his small arms bright pink from the exertion of trying to warm himself. The sight tore at Layton's heart, even the memory pained him.

In his reverie, a commotion broke out inside the tea shop. Not one to ignore his gentlemanly duties, he hurried inside to see if he could be of any assistance at all. With his hand on the doorknob of the shop, he watched as seven people shouted and bickered at each other over the oddest of objects: a glass bottle. Trying not to intrude but sidling close enough to hear the cause of the dispute, Layton stood behind a large man with a booming voice.

"I'm telling ya, you can't break the bottle," the man shouted, leaning into the face of another. They each stood in an enclosed circle, pointing and bickering back and forth as Layton stood between them. Finally he indicated that he wished to speak, quieting all but a few of the group.

"If I may, might I ask what the issue at hand may be?"

The large man blinked at the unexpected intruder for a moment and looked to the others for an answer. A smaller man, thin as a post with horn-rimmed glasses, tapped the cork of the bottle.

"Inside this bottle is a rare coin worth more than anything any of us can imagine," the thin man wheezed. Layton looked closely at it and also noticed a small piece of paper inside.

"So why not simply take the bottle and its contents to an appraiser?"

"That's the thing, we did. However, the old gentleman would not appraise the coin without being able to hold it and whatnot. We cannot get the cork out, either. Also, the bottle itself may be worth some value."

Layton picked up the bottle and turned it over in his hand to size its weight and depth. It did not feel entirely heavy and from his experience he could not see what would make the bottle itself valuable. The coin inside, however, looked like an ancient Roman coin, complete with the insignia of the eagle etched into the top. If it were real, the coin would essentially be worth more than Layton made in an entire year's worth of research and teaching.

"What about just smashing the bottle?"

The entire group erupted in a chorus of "no!", sending Layton a step back in surprise. He adjusted his top hat once again and looked at the bottle, tilting his head and scratching the underside of his chin. Suddenly his face lit up in surprise and he set the bottle back on the table. Upside down.

Leaning into the table with all his weight, Layton pushed on the bottle until the cork started to inch its way inside. The farther the cork moved, the more the pressure inside built and the harder he had to fight against it to get the cork in. With one final bounce, Layton forced the cork inside the bottle with a loud, echoing _thumpf_. Wriggling the bottle around, the coin _clinking _against the glass, it dropped onto the table and nearly rolled away. The entire group lunged after the corn, smashing into each other and knocking over chairs left and right. Layton held his spot, reaching his smallest finger inside the bottle to retrieve the scrap of paper inside. As he pulled it out and looked at the name on the front, his face lost every ounce of color. A tidal wave of sickness sloshed around his stomach and left his legs weak and shaking.

On the front of the folded paper in thick, ugly black ink, was his last name.


	9. Puzzle 008

Puzzle 008

Layton inched his way back to his own flat, the scrap of paper from the bottle clenched between his fingers. The sweat from his palms dampened the paper, leaving it soft and malleable. Various Londoners flitted past his peripheral vision and many greeted him, but so deep in his thoughts Layton barely acknowledged each of them. Each time he accidentally bumped into another person, he mumbled some sort of apology but he never fully voiced anything.

Everything felt so surreal. The idea that he just had tea with Luke's captor frightened him to the very marrow, and almost seemed laughable at the same time. And what would he tell Clark, or Brenda for that matter when she finally arrived? And what of Flora? Flora would not handle such news well, and Layton predicted a veritable storm of angry words and tears later. But what could Layton actually do? Threatening Clive would do absolutely nothing in regards to returning Luke and calling the police would most certainly result in Luke's death. Neither outcome would bring anyone any closer to finding him either. But at least now they had a starting point, something much more definitive than a map full of numbers and various times.

Inspector Chelmey would need to hear from him soon, and Layton would need to know if the Yard turned anything up. The carnage of the train wreck still made headlines in the London Times, and Layton read that Inspector Chelmey worked day and night to solve the matter. Whether or not the Inspector actually did as he claimed remained to be seen, but Layton actually held immense faith in the Inspector. Though Inspector Chelmey outwardly despised Layton, and did not mind verbally claiming such a thing, each respected the other more or less. At the moment Layton could understand Inspector Chelmey's reluctance in finding Luke; on their first true encounter Luke tackled the Inspector and attempted to rip his face off. From that moment working with Inspector Chelmey was slow and burdensome at best, especially if Luke involved himself. However, Inspector Chelmey's chief deputy, Barton, helped Layton as much as possible, and Layton did the same whenever he could.

The throbbing in his abdomen pounded away steadily, though he felt little pain. Whatever medicine Doctor Lerwick gave Layton was absolutely amazing and he could not be anymore grateful to her; at some point he would repay her kindness in full but at the moment his attention must remain on the task at hand. If Clive actually did what was necessary to keep Luke alive (that is, feeding and clothing him), then his game could last for weeks. However, if Clive allowed Luke to simply rot for days on end, Layton had very little time at all. A human being could last only for so long without food or proper nourishment, and if Luke did not have proper clothing surely frostbite would do him in. A simple white button down shirt would not fare against snow and freezing winds; Layton's own wool coat did not feel warm enough at times, particularly at night. How poor Luke kneeled quietly in the cold Layton could simply not fathom. The young man's resolve and fortitude far outdid Layton or Clark's.

Nothing could prepare Layton for Clark's wrath that he knew was coming. Informing the boy's father that he had a meeting with the aforementioned boy's captor simply slapped both of them in the face. Minute by minute the anger in Layton's chest started to bubble as if boiling over a fire; how could Layton be so stupid? Luke's captor sat across him at an open café, drinking tea, no less! The formality and cordiality felt like syrup dripping slowly from the bottle, and Clive loved every last drop of it. The young man loved to watch Layton squirm in place and grow more and more desperate by the moment. Such a sick game belonged only in detective novels and stories told by young, imaginative men. Layton read a number of such novels, and each one left him feeling equally as despondent and disgusted. Never in his life would he imagine that he would become the victim of such a disaster, such a rotten scene as that. The reality of what just occurred slowly started to piece itself together in his mind as his own pace quickened as well. He felt as though he needed to return home, to get to work on deciphering the mystery of the map. He had one clue, one tiny piece to the puzzle, but the puzzle itself was much larger than anyone could imagine. No one could do anything but wait out the game and allow it to run its sick, demented course.

Brenda would arrive within a few hours but not soon enough for supper. The clue to the next puzzle, scribbled hastily on the slip of paper held tightly in Layton's clenched fist, would not occur until well after Brenda arrived. The more Layton thought of it, the more he decided such a time span would work in his favor; this gave them more time to speak with Inspector Chelmey and comb the rest of the city in their search for Luke. Layton and Chelmey knew of more than a dozen gang hideouts and crime syndicates between the two of them, and one of them possibly held another clue of some kind, but there was no way to tell if Clive was connected to any of them. When the young man created the underground replica of London he instituted his own group of evil henchmen, known to the underground citizens as "The Family", but none of them retained their positions after the operation went defunct. For all Layton knew, more of them simply went to prison after the event even though many of them claimed they were just following orders. Layton could not excuse such an excuse.

Layton could feel the rage seething within him, although such a thing would appear ungentlemanly if he were to actually act on his feelings. He really wanted to destroy something, anything to unleash the anxiety and surge of emotions that raced throughout his body. But to act on such impulses would not be the mark of a true gentleman, and would certainly not serve any useful purpose whatsoever. For a moment, however, he could understand Clark's flashes of intense anger and hurt. Truthfully, Layton ached right along with him.

Brenda's reaction to the entirety of events still remained a mystery in Layton's mind. Ever since they met in University, thanks to Clark, Layton never saw her angered. Her immense patience rivaled that of her compassion, and luckily she passed such traits down to Luke as well. As Luke grew, whenever his mother entered the room he clung to her as if he were a baby monkey, causing her to trip over him on more than one occasion; because of this, for a while she abandoned wearing long skirts and wore trousers until the boy reached elementary age. Occasionally she scolded him, but she never grew entirely angry. Brenda and Claire, on the few occasions in which they met, complimented each other easily and Layton loved them both even more for this reason.

Contemplating his relationship with Claire allowed Layton's mood to lift somewhat. Even after her death, she still held an immense power over him, in a positive way. They shared so many happy memories together as well as a smattering of tiffs that only made their relationship stronger (their worst argument concerned on which mantel to place an antique vase recovered from a British cavern in Layton's flat). Most likely Luke would never remember the event but he met Claire a handful of times before her death, once after the boy learned to walk and another before the Tritons moved out to Mist Haley. To see her interactions with him, how maternal she could be even with another's child, Layton found positively endearing.

Nearing his flat once again, Layton picked up his pace. Flora stood in the middle of the road, a near panicked expression blotting her face. Upon seeing the Professor, she darted towards him and crashed into his midsection, eliciting an audible _oompf _from him.

"Flora, dear, it's alright. What's the matter?"

The young girl's grip around his ribcage tightened ever so slightly. For a moment she stood latched onto the Professor in silence, then suddenly withdrew herself entirely and stomped her foot on the pavement. "How _dare _you leave us alone like that, Professor!"

"What do you me-"

"Mr. Triton thought Clive somehow got to you and…" Flora struggled with finding the proper words to express her anger. "Well, it would not have been very nice!"

Layton could not help himself but to smile at her. Ever since she came under his care her somewhat…absentminded expressions never failed to amuse him. "No, my dear, it certainly would not have been very nice. But I am home now, and we can continue our search for Luke." They both turned to go back inside but stopped to find Clark blocking the doorway. Pure, unadulterated anger blazoned his face, leaving it red and spotted.

"Hershel," fumed Clark, trying to keep his voice down. "Where, Hershel…where did you go?" For a moment, Layton's mouth bobbed up and down as he formulated an answer. "Answer me!"

The outburst forced both Layton and Flora to jump, and the young girl immediately scrambled to hide behind Layton's taller frame. The Professor moved towards the door but Clark held out a hand, keeping them from entering the flat. "Don't, Hershel," Clark whispered into Layton's face. "Don't ever do that to me again. Now is just not the time." Momentarily Clark looked as though he had more to say, instead he turned around and stomped back into the flat. Glancing at each other but heaving an audible and exasperated sigh, Flora and Layton followed him in.

Once inside the kitchen again, Clark tapped on another slip of paper with eight or so different times written on it, and outwardly Layton groaned. As of this moment he felt sick of anything regarding time, and to look at a clock at the moment could possibly make him sick. Clark turned around and noticed his concern.

"What? It's from my wife. I have trouble understanding her over the phone though, your connection is terrible, Hershel."

Layton looked at the series of numbers and repeated them aloud. "'Two, three, two, seven, one, four, two…eight'? Clark, this makes no sense."

"Well, the connection kept cutting out. I really only heard about half of it all."

The Professor tilted his head to think of another possible solution, then tapped his chin. "Did you hear half the sentence or half the word?"

The look on Clark's face would see comical at any other moment. "What do you mean?"

"Did you simply guess at the numbers or did you actually hear all of them?"

"Guessed most of them, why?"

Layton pointed at each letter individually. "The message was not intended to be numbers; you heard the numbers that mattered, then heard only half the other ones and assumed the rest must be numbers as well."

"Honestly, Hershel, I am truly not in the mood for this."

Flora sidled next to him and looked over the Professor's arm with Clark peering above her head. "It was supposed to say 'to see you in one or two…'"

"Hours," Clark aided.

"'Hours. To see you in one or two hours, alright?' That was the original message. I know it seems as though they simply rhymed but when you heard the real numbers, the one and the third two, your brain filled in the rest and you _thought _you heard numbers. When did you get this call?"

Clark glanced at his watch and squinted to remember the time. "About an hour, hour and a half ago." Suddenly his face lit up in recognition. "My word, Hershel, she'll be here in a few minutes! Come on, Flora, we do not have much time!"

* * *

They arrived at the train station (the third time in a day for Layton) in record time. According to their calculations, her train arrived fifteen minutes ago giving Brenda enough time to locate her luggage and find the designated spot. Clark's composure suggested panic until he spotted her short bobby hair among the crowd. He held his long, lanky arm above his head and called her name. When she turned, Layton could see her entire face, and he had to turn away.

He could see the tracks tears left down her face, the anguish and hurt she felt, everything Clark felt magnified hundredfold. Luke was her baby in every sense of the word, save for his age. As their only child, to have him ripped away from her…well, Layton could not imagine the feeling. All of this, everything from the train wreck that took an unknown number of lives to the pain he now caused his best friend and his family, all of this was Layton's fault. And he felt every anguishing, horrendous moment of it.

Brenda and Clark shared and moment together in each other's arms before turning towards Layton and Flora. To Layton's surprised, Brenda tapped his shoulder and embraced him the moment the Professor turned to face her. He towered over her, a full head taller, and he could see Clark's vacant expression. When she pulled away from him and turned to Flora, Clark approached him.

"I know we left in a bit of a rush, Hershel, but I was wondering where you wandered off to back at the flat," Clark stated, more of a statement than a question. Brenda and Flora chatted rapidly, somewhat oblivious to the older men next to them. Their faces registered a bit of relief now that another person became involved that the other could relate to much more easily than Clark or the Professor. Any onlooker would suggest the two knew each other much longer than just now. As happy as the site made Layton, Clark brought his attention back to the task at hand.

"Hershel, where were you?"

Layton took his time answering, glancing to the ground and at any other object than Clark's face. "Do you remember Clive?"

"You mean the man who has my son?"

The Professor nodded. "I had tea with him."

And Layton's world went blank.


	10. Puzzle 009

Puzzle 009

Layton awoke with a vast crowd surrounding him on all sides, staring down at him with various looks of concern and interest. For a moment their faces blended together as his eyes came into focus and the dull pounding behind his head slowly churned its way up behind his eyes. The left half of his face felt warm and thick, and blinking felt difficult. Brenda kneeled to his right, her petite hand gently probing his painful cheek. Her attention varied between Layton and a commotion outside the circle of the crowd.

Instinctively, and predominantly out of habit, Layton felt for his familiar hat squished against the top of his head. He sat up slowly, allowing Brenda and Flora to aid him (though as little as possible; a true gentleman accepts the gracious offers of ladies but never wishes them unnecessary exertion). Upon standing his head swam, and an extreme case of vertigo threatened to put him back on the ground, but Layton held his balance and stood properly. Those nearest him in the crowd showed their concern and momentarily held him in place until Layton courteously waved them off, thanking each one. As they dispersed, the Professor, Brenda, and Flora saw through the crowd.

Inspector Chelmey, an already towering figure, stood toe to toe with Clark, who fought off a much smaller Barton behind him. The three spoke at once, trying to yell over the voice of the other; Chelmey tried to recite Clark's list of rights available to him, Clark shouted his opposition to whatever he was accused of, while Barton desperately tried to wrap handcuffs around Clark's large wrists. Layton watched the three verbally wrestle with one another before slowly making his way towards them.

"Excuse me, Inspector," Layton nearly shouted. "What seems to be the issue at hand, sir?" The Inspector, Barton, and Clark stopped on cue. Taking advantage of the quiet, Inspector Chelmey spoke first.

"Layton! Layton, we found the man who abducted little Duke," declared Chelmey, gesturing towards Clark. The bearded man's jaw visibly hung open in incredulity, unable to speak due to the insane stupidity of the situation. "You said the kidnapper claimed to the boy's father, and when we saw the commotion we apprehended the rogue!" Chelmey's face set in stone with the assurance that he finally solved a case without the help of another person, specifically Professor Layton. Despite the occasionally foolishness in which Chelmey allowed himself to become the victim, he truly had a strong track record worthy of a Scotland Yard detective. With the help of Barton the team solved more cases together than many of the detectives in the country. But right now, Chelmey's information obviously erred.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," Layton grinned. "This really is Luke's father. But thank you for putting a bit of distance between us. I'm not sure how well my face would hold up to Clark."

Chelmey looked at Clark. "How do I know this is not an imposter of some sort? Clive pretended to be Luke; who's to say this one is not equally as sly?"

Before Layton could reason the situation for Chelmey, Clark growled his frustration. "Because I'm the bloody mayor of Mist Haley, thank you." Both Barton and Chelmey looked towards each other in panic, frozen in place. To shake them of their reverie, Clark turned over his wrists to allow Barton access to the keyhole. With the handcuffs loosened Clark massaged each of his wrists in turn and straightened his coat.

"Right, well, sir," Chelmey stuttered, his eyes cast downward. "Please accept my sincerest apologies for Barton's unfortunate….erm, mix up. Poor lad, he gets a tad excited sometimes." Barton dropped the handcuffs in surprise, unable to formulate a coherent sentence before the Inspector spoke again. "Well, now that all that business is settled, do you have anything new to report, Professor Layton?"

Despite the seemingly humorous moments the group shared, a rift still existed between Clark and Layton. Brenda sidled next to the two and laid a loving hand on Clark's bicep to keep the man's anger and irritation at bay. Together for over fifteen years, half of which in matrimony, Brenda knew how to best calm her husband and anchor his emotions. He would never hurt her; in fact, every instance he accidentally stepped on her toes while dancing at their wedding Clark apologized profusely.

Professor Layton clasped his arms around his back and nodded. "I have some new information, Inspector. Last night Luke's captor appeared at Tower Bridge; he had Luke, and Luke was safe for the most part. Unfortunately he _still_ has Luke, but if anything we do have a lead." He retrieved the folded map from his pocket. "These times represent a series of puzzles; upon solving the puzzles the captor promises Luke's safe return. Unfortunately, Inspector, I fear I must ask Scotland Yard to remain somewhat distant."

Chelmey furrowed his large eyebrows. "Why on Earth would we do that, Layton?"

"Because now it's personal."

* * *

After moving Clark and Brenda into Layton's room for the duration of their stay (Layton resolved to sleep on the sofa), the Professor told the story of his tea with Clive. The tears that streaked down Brenda's face as he spoke tore through Layton's very soul. Luke was her baby boy, her only son, the child she created with the man she loved. Unable to hold the little boy close reduced her to almost nothing. If not for Flora, Brenda did not know how long she could keep her composure.

With Layton's story finished he sipped his tea to calm his nerves. This situation was different from all his other adventures with Luke. Beforehand he kept Luke close and never let the young man stray farther than a few dozen feet or so. The distance he felt now shocked his system, causing is hands to shake and his stomach to knot itself. However, what Layton felt paled in comparison to the feelings Brenda and Clark faced.

Flora busied herself once again making a late supper for everyone to keep herself occupied. While living in St. Mystere, Flora hardly ever cooked due to the servants that did much of everything for her. After moving in with the Professor she practiced cooking as much as possible, experimenting with various tastes and textures. When old enough she wanted to go to some sort of culinary school, focusing on making various foods involving cucumbers. Thanks to Luke and his voracious appetite she could always find someone to try her latest cooking concoction. Even if whatever she created tasted just a step above disgusting Luke always at least tried her creation just to humor her.

Like Clark, Brenda examined Luke's room with the same muted and sad expression as her husband. All the letters she wrote to him stayed tucked away in a drawer she did not bother looking through; she knew the contents of each letter and she did not want to unknowingly invade her son's privacy in any way. A few of his toys and trinkets Brenda recognized either because she bought them or Luke wrote about them in his letters home, such as his favorite stuffed bear that threatened to rip at any given moment or an odd spinning top Luke found on one of his adventures. His room at Layton's resembled his room at home with similar furniture placed about, even some of Luke's books matched his shelf at home. Since he now resided in a dormitory at secondary school he shared a room with five other boys giving him less of an opportunity to style the room as he wished. According to his letters, he now spent much of his time in the dormitory fashioning together various mechanical devices to pass the time between studying for exams including small flying toy car powered by elastic bands. Layton received the chance to try the device when picking up Luke and tucked the car into his travel case for safe keeping until he could place it on the boy's desk at home.

While the Triton's spent some time together in Luke's room, Layton sat at the dinner table pouring over the map once again. He scratched through the first time from his meeting with Clive this morning and drew another line to the next puzzle. If anything, he would not need to travel very far for the next puzzle; only three blocks away down and just past Knighten Street. In fact if they stayed on Wapping High Street and continued eastward they could find the desired location yet still remain close to Tower Bridge. It was a working plan, a small and shaky one perhaps, but a plan nonetheless. Many of the times did not stray far from the Tower Bridge or its main road but despite every shape and figure Layton drew he could not work a discernible shape from the seemingly random occurrences. This frustrated him to no end.

Flora stood at the kitchen frame and remarked she would have supper ready in a few moments. Layton then collected all his scribbles and stuffed them into the various pockets for later use. He had no system for his pockets just like he had no system for his workspace, unless one could deem "chaos" as a method of organization. With the main table cleared, he sauntered back down the hallway to alert his guests but stopped when he overheard their conversation.

Brenda sat on the edge of the bed with Clark, his large arms wrapped around her small shoulders. "You really must apologize to Hershel," she spoke into his neck. The warble in her voice did little to hide her fear and the simple fact that she even bothered to think of the Professor nearly melted him. Clark kissed her forehead and pulled her even tighter against his chest.

"I know I do, my dear, my anger was certainly uncalled for. But Clive literally sat a foot away from him and Hershel did nothing. _Nothing, _Brenda." Layton agreed with that much, but what could he do in the given situation? He did not have the heart to harm another human, and even so if he tried anything they would be no closer to finding Luke whatsoever. Clark continued to growl as if he were a dog chained by a leash. "This whole situation would be different if Clive did not give him a blasted puzzle to work through. We may lose our son over a _puzzle_."

That was enough, Layton could not listen to another word. He rapped on the door to alert them for supper but gave no indication that he heard their exchange. "Clark, Brenda: supper is ready though I am not sure what Flora prepared." Brenda smiled at him and nodded, uncurling herself from Clark's embrace to stand and pull her husband along. At the dinner table, Layton helped Flora serve her newest creation (some sort of soup resembling thin chili) as Clark pulled back the chair and seated his wife. Once Layton did the same for Flora they sat in awkward silence save for the congratulatory remarks on Flora's cooking.

Clark spoke first, tossing his napkin into his lap and laying down his spoon. "Hershel, I owe you an apology for my actions today."

Apologizing for anything went against Clark's nature, and Hershel could see the internal debate the man had within himself. "I understand, Clark," replied the Professor through a genuine smile. "You were upset with me and I deserve your anger although my face did not necessarily enjoy its conversation with your fist."

And there it was, something to elicit a smile from everyone. Layton did not dole out jokes often but when the opportunity arose to diffuse the tension he immediately jumped at the chance. Brenda giggled first, trying to hide her smirk behind her table napkin, followed soon by Flora. Clark raised an eyebrow at their laughing then grinned across the table at Layton. It was the first smile Clark showed since his arrival.

Although the tension never fully dissipated throughout supper, the four could at least speak again like old friends. They discussed Luke's birthday and how the family would spend it, Flora discussed her cake design, and Layton told them of a book series he found for Luke to read at school. Even in Luke's absence merely speaking of him as if he were present lifted everyone's spirits. That is, until the clock in the hallway rang.

The Professor and Clark would go together while Brenda and Flora remained at the flat. In his discussion with Inspector Chelmey they agreed that a beat cop would patrol the flat during their absence for Flora and Brenda's protection, at least until Clark and Layton returned. Donning warmer underclothing the pair set out for the lower Thames.

At one point during the short walk Professor Layton stopped under a streetlamp and read the note he retrieved from the ancient bottle. Apart from his name the only word scrawled on the inside read "Prospect of Whitby," a well known public house on a corner of Wapping High Street and shoved up against the shore of the Thames. It was the only clue they had to work on at the moment but they were prepared for whatever challenge they would face.

Stepping into the warmth of the pub Clark unbuttoned the front of his coat and surveyed the room. Patrons lined the walls, drinking from mugs and glasses of various shapes and sizes to offset their freezing joints. They were only a few minutes early so Layton gestured for Clark to sit on one of the stools, joined only moments later by the keeper. "Anything I can get for you, lads?"

Clark shook his head but Layton tipped his hat. "Tea would be nice, if you have it. Please do not trouble yourself, though." A gentleman never imposes on others or asks for more than necessary.

"Not a problem, my good sir; can have a pot going within minutes." The gruff man nodded and pulled his hand from his pocket. "I'm in a bit of a jam though. I have this sliding puzzle, see, and as much as I try I just can't get the picture to line up. I've been so busy trying to reckon this one out that my drink orders are getting mixed up!"

Layton held out his hand to receive the small square of blocks. Within the outline were nine smaller squares with space for them to move about; this sort of puzzle required moving around the squares to reveal an image in the center but such a feat was often easier said than accomplished. Clark looked over Layton's shoulder as he moved a row of squares here, a single square there, turning the game piece over and every which way. The more Layton solved of the puzzle the easier they could discern the image that slowly pieced together so reveal an overflowing mug of ale. Finally, just as the pub keeper placed a pot of tea in front of them, Layton slid the final square into place. As he did so the back of the game piece fell apart in his hands, scattering the small squares all over the bar top. In his embarrassment Layton did not notice the scrap of paper that Clark snatched from underneath the mess.

"My sincerest apologies, sir," Layton gushed, his cheeks turning red. "Please allow me to pay for the replacement of the game."

"Well, now that you solved it I can stop thinking about the stupid thing. The tips alone should cover the cost of the game!" The keeper suddenly zoomed off in another direction to fill an order, the obvious relief on his face becoming an air of determination.

As Layton sipped his tea, Clark unfolded the scrap of paper he retrieved. "Hershel," he interrupted. "Hershel, I believe we have our next location."


	11. Puzzle 010

Puzzle 010

Layton turned up his collar against the cold wind that bit and snapped at his face. Without a scarf of some sort the wind danced and taunted as his neck as if it were a child tormenting another on a playground. He should be comfortable with the wind by now; many of his daily destinations centered around the Thames which created a perpetual wind regardless of the season. Once winter set in the wind often felt like daggers against one's face. Clark hardly fared better; for such a tall and broad-shouldered individual as Clark the oppressive wind threatened to send him to the ground.

The next puzzle lay less than a mile north of the tavern and even after drinking the entire pot of tea they still had enough time until the next puzzle. Clark paused at a phone box to check on flora and his wife. For the first time, at least since Clark's arrival, his face registered any sort of hope. Layton stood outside the box with his back against the wind, blowing into his palms for warmth and Clark chatted with Brenda. He owned a pair of gloves but in his rush to leave the flat Layton forgot about the pair entirely. Clark wrapped the scarf Brenda made for him tighter around his neck.

They had hope; a mere hour ago Layton would almost swear all was lost, that Luke's fate was carved in stone. But now they could hold their heads upward and face whatever challenge arrived. For a few hours they could ensure Luke's survival. Although the worry never left Clark's mind, his face seemed to relax somewhat. If anything, Clark did not look as though he wanted to crack Layton in the face any longer. The news he shared with Brenda brightened his face and animated his speech, coloring his words with just a hint of excitement. Upon hearing the news, Flora grabbed the phone from Brenda's hand and, in a very unladylike fashion (which Layton would speak with her about later) demanded that Clark repeat the story once again.

The situation, if told to Layton on any other day, would most likely cause him to laugh. But now when the danger was so close, so very real, he could hardly stop his hands from shaking. Combined with the cold Layton's entire body felt painfully off kilter, as if at any moment he would vomit. The tea he drank, absentmindedly sipping cup after cup, sloshed around his belly as if in a barrel on a boat. But he refused to give up on Luke. No matter the outcome, Layton would see this through until the end.

For now, with Luke's safety assured, Layton could focus on Clark's well-being. "Clark," Layton prodded. "How is Mist Haley?"

Clark gave a look that suggest pure ignorance, as if he never heard the name before in his life. Once he recalled the fact that he is currently the mayor of Mist Haley did he nod his head. "Just as fog-laden as ever," sighed Clark in return. "So many families come and go each year I fear that soon there will not be a town for me to serve. Many of Luke's boyhood friends moved away for secondary school since we do not have one. It all moves so quickly, Hershel." Clark stood under the light of a lamp and looked upwards as if the overcast sky held all the answers he needed. "Part of me would like for Luke to come home once again and just stay a little boy, but at the same time I want him to explore the world. He's not really a 'little' boy anymore, is he?"

Professor Layton smiled at Clark's gangly frame. "I would say he is more of a young man, actually. And if you were to ask Luke he would say that he is fully grown by his own measure."

And it was true, Luke believed himself to be an adult. He was typical of young men his age, many of whom believed themselves to be near invincible. Luke exhibited similar traits of reckless pride at times, and barring dangerous consequences Layton usually allowed them to play out. A gentleman admits his mistakes and actively works to correct them, but the first step to correcting a problem was the admission that one existed. One learns through experience, through trial and error, through successes and mistakes. Luke was lucky to have a mentor to guide him through mistakes and trials, but in no way could Layton prepare Luke for the current ordeal.

Eventually Luke will learn to pilot an automobile, to court a young lady properly, to navigate bank account, and eventually go to university. But such things were for a father to teach his son; it was not Layton's place to determine if Luke was mature and ready enough to partake in such activities. However, as little time as Luke and Clark spent together Layton was unsure if Clark could accurately gauge the boy's maturity level. Certainly for his age Luke was more mature than most young men but how much of that did Clark know?

They stopped at a crosswalk to allow cars to pass. Their brisk pace warmed them somewhat and as they reached the inner part of the town scores of people filled the streets, muscling their ways back home. One semester Layton taught a class that met early in the evening and finished well after the evening rush concluded. He loved missing the rush; during semesters in which he teaches during the day, going home takes much longer than he had patience. Paired with waking early to teach and staying up late to work on various archaeological projects, Layton found his patience wearing this. Driving especially wore on his nerves when traffic ran slow or conditions were less than favorable. He never allowed his anger to become the better of him or give in to enraged driving, but when he returned home some afternoons he needed some time to himself.

Clark nudged Layton out of his musings and led him across the street. Clive did not say what would occur if they were to arrive early, but Layton preferred to arrive early regardless. A gentleman always arrived early if possible or as soon as he could if late, this way if the gentleman's assistance was needed, he could provide it and spare the other individual unnecessary hardship. Neither Layton nor Clark wanted to think of the consequences if they arrived late.

The building in question, a factory of some sort, remained locked with every light turned off. A lone lamp lit the entrance in murky yellow, clashing with the deep mauve of the door. Layton turned to Clark and gave him a supportive smile. "We are early yet," he said. "Do not despair, Clark." The taller man fidgeted nervously, his eyes scanning the area for threats of any sort.

Clark finally shook his head. "This is madness, Hershel. Pure insanity." He continued to mutter his complaints against the wind, an indication of his dwindling mental state. The man was visibly scared, and Layton could not fault him for feeling so shaken. "I do not understand it, Hershel."

"Do not understand what, Clark?"

"I've sent him to stay with you, then I had no more than the usual fears about sending him to secondary school." Layton nodded in understanding as Clark's internal stream of consciousness filtered out into the open. "But what I do not understand is that he is only a few meters away from me at this very moment and yet I am so terrified."

Clark Triton, by his very nature, was a proud man. Admitting fear of any sort shanked the man's ego, as indicated by his wildly searching eyes. Layton reached up to hold the man's shoulder in hopes that the touch of someone familiar would ground him in some way.

"You trust me, Clark—at least, you did—and that makes the difference. If anything he is not under the care of madmen at school-"

An audible click echoed inside the doorframe, followed by a sound akin to a ticking clock. To the right of the doorknob a panel dropped revealing a timer. Starting at ten, the timer immediately counted down by seconds, clearly stating they only had ten minutes to complete whatever was necessary. The time left no indication as to what exactly needed to be done though, and for a few seconds Layton and Clark stood in place gawking at the timer. Clark reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the paper he nabbed from the game puzzle, holding it at an odd angle to read the shaky letters. "'Go through the front,'" he read aloud. "But this is the front." Clark jiggled the door knob in confusion, and then slammed his shoulder against the door when the lock did not budge. Layton dropped to his knee to inspect the keyhole. The unusual shape looked unlike anything he saw beforehand, but he could see through to the other side. As Clark pounded against the door, Layton searched the ground for anything resembling a key. If not, he would have to pry the lock and force the door open.

Time ticked toward zero, its blank face cold and without remorse. As the numbers flew away, Clark grew more panicked and angry. Layton continued his search, rooting through the trash along the alley. Any other day he avoided trash as if it contained the Bubonic plague, but now he imitated a squirrel or raccoon of some sort. He motioned for Clark to check the frame for keys; as the tall man stretched to reach the top, he dragged his fingers across the ridge. Apart from dust caking his fingers, pieces of metal dropped to the ground. "Hershel!" Clark scrambled to pick up the pieces and hold all ten in his arms. Layton threw down whatever trash he dug through and inspected the unusual keyhole once again. Its "key" actually comprised of multiple pieces of the strange metal, forced together into a particular shape.

Immediately he went to work trying various combinations against the door. Two pieces together did not work and four pieces made the thin objects too thick to fit. The clock continued to wind down with less than a minute remaining. Layton's heart pounded in his chest cavity, its erratic thump echoing away in his ears. He quickly ran out of combinations to try, but with less combinations he was closer to the proper answer. Down to the final three pieces he could try together, with ten seconds left, Layton shoved the pieces into the keyhole and turned the makeshift "key." Or tried to; midway through the turn the key stopped, jammed in place.

"I'm sure this is the right combination," Layton complained, his voice clipped and quick. Clark impatiently shoved the Professor aside and forced the key to turn over. The time stopped with only two seconds remaining. Clark rested his head against the door in relief. "Let's move, Hershel."

They crept through the door into near-perfect darkness, accented only by the small windows lining the walls. The two moved slowly, shuffling their feet to avoid running into something dangerous. Once the main entrance closed, its strange lock snapping shut once again, another light illuminated far into the factory. Clark and the Professor stopped and stared into Clive's shadowed eyes, the overhead light accentuating his disgusting grin.

"Hello, Hershel," the young man croaked. "I see you brought a friend."

Clark shifted his weight as if prepared to pounce. They were at a disadvantage here; the distance between the Professor and Clark did not allow for any sort of surprise in taking down Clive if necessary. And Clive knew the warehouse much better than either of the two, so he held that advantage over them as well. They were certainly playing this game on Clive's court.

Professor Layton held fast to Clark's elbow to keep the taller man steady. "First, I must know of Luke." They could skip the formalities this time; Clive did not deserve them.

"Ask him yourself, Hershel," giggled Clive. Suddenly Luke stepped into the light, evidence of tears tracking down his cheeks. He looked unharmed although visibly shaken, surprised to see his father standing before him. Clark could not contain himself any longer; upon seeing Luke he charged forward, ignoring whatever warning or protest Layton gave. As he ran more lights snapped on revealing more of the warehouse, obviously triggered by some sort of motion-sensing device. Layton reached out in a desperate attempt to grab Clark's elbow but the larger man's inertia prevented him from doing so.

What Layton could not stop, the crack of a gunshot did so for him. And Clark crumpled onto the dusty floor.


	12. Puzzle 011

Puzzle 011

Everything stopped.

The sound of the shot reverberated off the walls, echoing and repeating itself as if it were a stuck recording. Clive dropped the gun in front of him with a loud clatter, the gun merely an extension of the cruelty he did not know he could commit. The horror was evident in his eyes, terrified that he just took someone's life. It was apparent from his reaction that he did not believe himself capable of firing a gun, let alone fire _at _someone. Layton could see that Clive was no killer; all at once the young man showed terror behind his calm demeanor, terror that he accidentally became the last thing he intended, the monster he never wanted to be.

Luke broke free from Clive's side, running to where his father lay. The young man did not speak and barely breathed as he knelt in front of his father, afraid to touch the man's shoulder. Layton stood his ground, his eyes locked on Clive. If Clive tried anything, Layton would respond regardless of the violence necessary to do so. Luke tapped his father's broad shoulder, almost afraid to disturb him as if Clark simply rested or napped at home. From Layton's vantage point he could not see Clark's face or tell if he could breathe at all. Neither of them kept firearms of any sort; Layton believed that a gentleman did not need a weapon to solve a dispute and Clark found them to be too dangerous with a young boy living at home. As a little boy, and like every little boy in his play group, Luke was fascinated with pretending to be some sort of bandit or outlaw and fired pretend guns made of sticks or various objects. Being so impressionable, as soon as Layton explained why he never carried a firearm Luke vowed to never carry one either. Maybe now Layton would seriously contemplate purchasing a gun.

Suddenly movement from the corner of his eye distracted Layton. Clark's torso shuffled, then his legs and finally his arms. Groaning in pain, he slowly propped himself up on his elbows and checked for the hole in his shirt. Apart from a bit of blood and a tear through his shirt and coat, the bullet merely grazed his hip; as soon as Clark stood the bullet dropped to the floor.

Forgetting himself, Layton rushed over to Clark's side as Luke helped his father stand. For a moment Clark and Luke stood wrapped in each other's arms and Clark could hold his baby boy once again, could be sure he was alive and well. Layton could not break the two apart, instead he placed an arm on Clark's elbow for support. Although he could not see any grave threat to Clark's life, the man's face already lost some of its color and a thin film of sweat peppered his forehead. If they could escape within a reasonable amount of time Clark would not go into shock. For the second time in days, Layton would have to call upon Dr. Lerwick once again. From there, they would call Brenda and Flora, and they could reunite Luke with his mother and "sister." _Would _quickly became _if_.

"Let's go home, Luke," Clark winced against his son's messy head. The young man needed a bath, a warm meal, and a change of clothing but as long as Luke was out of immediate danger that satisfied Clark. Luke dug himself into his father's chest, believing—much like he did as a little boy—that as long as his daddy held him, Luke was perfectly safe. However, Clive halted their reunion.

"Release the boy," Clive demanded, his voice hardly audible and leaving no room for questioning. In his hand he held the same gun he accidentally fired, aimed directly at the back of Luke's head. "Let him go, now. You've seen what I can do with this; do not force me to attempt the feat a second time."

Layton froze in place to the right of Clark. He calculated the odds of survival if he were to jump between them and discovered three possibilities; one, the shock would cause Clive to drop the gun. This would possibly lead to a misfire that could harm anyone in the close vicinity. Two, Clive would accidentally fire again and the close proximity would permanently maim Layton, possibly killing him. Similarly, his third option meant another misfire that hit either Clark or Luke. None of these options were desirable.

Clark pulled his son further into his shoulder and tucked him beneath his arm. "No," he replied with icy breath. Luke's large eyes, the eyes his mother gave him, bounced back and forth between his father and the madman.

As soon as Clark finished his response Clive pointed the gun at the floor near Luke's feet and fired another deafening warning shot, then trained the gun back on Luke's head. "Now, Mr. Triton. I will not ask you again."

Layton kept his mouth glued shut during the exchange. Everyone else ignored him, although he was ready to do as asked. He watched Clark's face illuminate the internal debate that roared within him, trying his best to determine what he should do. His mouth bobbed in incredulity, unable to decide the best course of action for his son. To Clark, his son was worth the gunshot; he was worth as many shots as necessary. But at times it is the responsibility of a parent means doing things in the child's best interest no matter how much it hurt to do so.

With a heavy drop in his shoulders Clark held Luke at arm's length and bent to meet his son's eyes despite the excruciating pain in his hip. "Luke, listen to me."

Instantly Luke panicked, clamoring at his father's arms to return to the man's embrace. The boy's tears flowed incessantly as he pleaded for his father to stay. He knew what Clark would do.

"Luke! Son, calm down and look at me," Clark tried once again. "Listen to me, son. You are going to go with this man once again. But I swear to you, I will do whatever is needed to bring you home." He ran his fingers through Luke's hair. "You must be brave, son."

Luke's tears did not stop, even as he reluctantly nodded and wiped a few of the tears from his face. The track marks of his tears cut clean rivers through the dirt on his face, dripping from his chin to the dirty floor beneath them. He had no words as he turned to face Clive's revolting smirk, instead he breathed deeply and shuffled back to Clive's side.

Satisfied, Clive backed away from the older men with his hand fisting Luke's collar. The gun bobbed between the two as he attempted to escape but before he could move too far Clark stopped him once again. "You are not going to hurt him, I know that you won't."

Clive's smirk slithered into a bemused grin. "And how might you know that, Mr. Triton? For all you know as soon as the boy and I leave he will be nothing but a corpse. I shot you, who is to say I will not shoot him?"

The argument made Layton's hands shake once again. Clark seemingly ignored the provocative talk and charged Clive, grabbing the gun and holding it to his own head. Layton could see the whiteness in both their knuckles as Clark put pressure on Clive's fingers. "Do it," goaded Clark. "If you want to shoot somebody, then shoot me. I dare you." Blood from Clark's fingers, which he used to put pressure on his wound, coated Clive's hands in strange crimson patterns while his hip and the outer thigh of his trousers stained a darker maroon. "Well?"

No one took a breath as the two stood in placed locked in a sadistic version of Russian roulette. Clark's round eyes fixated on Clive's, unable to look away. The young man simply needed to squeeze, to put pressure on the trigger and fire the pistol and end Clark's life. He could leave Luke without a father and Hershel without a best friend in one fell swoop, one desperate act of insanity.

How much time passed, neither Layton nor Clark knew. Suddenly Clive withdrew his blood-stained hand and shoved Luke towards the back doorway. "I do not yet have what I want, Mr. Triton. Until then, I bid you both a fond farewell."

As Clive retreated, Clark snarled at the young man's retreating image. "I _will _have my son back, do you hear me? You can put me through the Apocalypse and I will still find my son!" The door slammed shut as Clark's breathing labored, then his shoulders sank. Layton caught the taller man as his knee buckled and his eyes threatened to roll back in his head. The blood from his hip spread across his clothing, darkening his otherwise pristine and pressed shirt. As soon as Layton held him upright Clark's eyes focused once again.

Together, with Layton supporting Clark, they made their way outside and into the blistering cold to hail a taxi.

* * *

Doctor Lerwick tugged on the suture string, pulling the flaps of skin around Clark's bullet wound closed. Due to a numbing injection of some sort, Clark could barely feel the needle going through his flesh as he nibbled on a piece of bread provided by a nurse. The small amount of food coupled with the warmth of the surgery brought color back into his cheeks, although it did nothing to calm the worry he felt.

Layton never cared for blood but he sat quietly in the chair adjacent to the bed, drumming his fingers together until Dr. Lerwick sat up again. She placed the suture scissors on the tray next to her and prepared a cotton ball of antiseptic. "How on Earth did you get yourself mixed into all this, Professor? And do not tell me there is a mafia of archaeologists out there trying to hunt you down," she teased, dabbing the cotton ball over the wound. Clark winced as the stinging substance seeped into his skin. "My apologies, Mr. Triton."

Clark did not phone Brenda to tell her of the night's events; she would find out as soon as Clark changed into his bedclothes. She was his wife, the woman he fell in love with and together they created a life which included the life of a child. The last thing he wanted to do was to add to the mountains of worry she already felt. As little as he knew Flora he figured she would also worry for them, especially for the Professor. No, telling the women would wait.

But they could trust Dr. Lerwick, who saw many unusual medical cases throughout the day. She could prove a valuable asset in their continuing hunt for Luke due to the reams of gossip she heard from her patients throughout the day. Clive had many people working for him when he created the underground London, no telling how many he had working for him now. And the doctor already knew much of the story so there was little left to tell. "Doctor, this is Luke's father." She stopped in placing a bandage over Clark's wound and nodded her head.

"Well, Luke's father, you can count yourself lucky," she noted. "The bullet only tore through skin. Apart from some blood loss and stitches, you will be fine. Just be sure to eat as soon as you are home to regain some of the protein you lost. Oh, and careful not to tear the stitches unless you want to go through this again." Much like when Layton and the doctor first met, she scribbled on a clipboard full of notes and charts before standing to make her exit. Layton and Clark stood, thanking her profusely until she turned back and quieted them. "Mister Triton, as soon as you find your son again you may bring him to me. He will be safe here. And Mister Layton, please try to limit your activity as I asked."

As soon as she left Clark resumed putting on his coat and tie. Still standing, Layton crossed his arms to think and addressed Clark, who refused to look at him. "Clark, can we talk about what happened?"

"You were there, Hershel. No need to speak on it."

"But what did I _see_?" Layton, of course, referred to Clark's near-suicidal actions regarding the gun and forcing Clive to hold it against his own head. "What was the point of all that madness, Clark?"

"Why do you even need to ask if you have it all figured out? It was a bit of madness, obviously."

That was not what Layton wanted to hear. "What if he actually fired? What would happen to Luke if you died in front of him? With you gone he could seriously harm Luke!"

Clark buttoned his coat and smiled. "He wouldn't though. I did it to prove a point, Hershel. Clive would not shoot me twice; the first scared him so. And if he would not do so at point blank, even when given the opportunity to do so, then he will not harm Luke. Do you see my reasoning?"

Although he was not entirely satisfied with the reasoning, there was little Layton could do now. He nodded and stuffed his top hat further onto his head in preparation for the wind, saying his goodbyes to Doctor Lerwick and her staff. Outside they hailed a taxi once again to return to the flat.

Inside they were virtually silent until Layton reminisced about Luke to drown out the horrible memories he just experienced. During one of their many waits to see Inspector Chelmey in his office, before Luke's age reached double-digits if Layton recalled correctly, the little boy sketched out a puzzle. To break the silence, he told the same puzzle to Clark.

"I have a puzzle that Luke told me once. Care to hear it?" Clark nodded his head. "Alright. Eleven people took part in a race, but they only awarded the top five. Alistair finished before Billy but behind Charlie. David finished behind Edward but behind Billy. What was the finishing order?"

Clark furrowed his eyebrows for a moment and scratched at his beard, then tried to reason the order out on his fingers. Finally he shrugged and gave in. "Honestly I do not even remember all the names."

"Charlie, Alistair, Billy, David, and Edward," Layton smiled, writing down the puzzle for Clark to visualize. "Luke figured this out before his tenth birthday." The idea made Clark smile and he folded the paper into a size small enough to fit into his trouser pocket. "He's a smart lad, Clark. Do not underestimate him."

The taxi slowed to a halt outside the Layton flat and Clark paid the fare. Standing in the doorway, Brenda waited for Clark to reach the steps before leaning forward for a kiss. As soon as they let go, she held a letter for them both to see. "This dropped in the post-box while you were out. Why do you have to be at Walbrook so early tomorrow morning?"


End file.
